


We Who Are About To Die

by Foxy Metal Messiah (Anankhe)



Category: Marvel (Comics), X-Factor (Comics), X-Force (Comics)
Genre: Blood, But nothing too terribly explicit, M/M, Making shit up because there is not a lot about 'Star's life in Mojoworld in the comics, Mojoworld AU, Romance, Slavery, Slow Burn, Violence, Worldbuilding, enemies to frenemies, eventually, frenemies to lovers, some gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-04-22 21:11:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14317236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anankhe/pseuds/Foxy%20Metal%20Messiah
Summary: "Breathe, the word comes to him, followed by its meaning moments later. He pushes the remaining air out of his lungs in one large bubble, before taking in a large, desperate gulp of fluid. It's thick and cold, and it immediately dawns upon him that he has made a grave mistake. He flails and gasps desperately, immediately trying to push the fluid back out as it invades his lungs. His fist hits the glass hard, the cracking noise loud enough to be heard over the alarm."Mojoworld AU. Rating will probably go up in the future.





	1. Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything in years, and I am not sure how much spare time I will have to work on this in the future. I do however intend on _trying_ to continue this and update on a more or less regular basis. Feedback is very much welcome :) hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Title is from the movie Gladiator.

The first thing he's aware of is darkness, and an odd feeling of weightlessness. He's floating, suspended upright in something thick and cool and fluid. It slides around his arms and legs, slow, viscous, unfamiliar. If his mind were less fuzzy, he might be able to make out the muted words of someone talking in a serious tone not too far from him. But as it is, he's not conscious enough to file it away as more than background noise. It doesn't seem relevant, so his blurry thoughts drift instead to the curious pressure he feels around his face. It feels foreign, like it doesn't belong there, but it's secured tightly enough that it doesn't budge when he shakes his head with a jerking motion. He frowns in annoyance, his long hair brushing against his cheek while the contraption remains in place. It seems to be pumping something into his nose, and he doesn't like the feeling of it. He tries to shake his head harder, but the experiment yields consistent results.

That seems to prompt some reaction from whoever is in the room with him. The voices pick up, pointed, closer. The noise of someone tapping on glass a few inches from his face. He continues to ignore them.

He wants to reach up and remove the thing attached to his face, but when he tries to move his hand all he gets is a pathetic twitch of his fingers. He frowns harder and jerks his head hard again, a muscle pulling in his neck.

The voice comes clearer, sounds slowly starting to register as words in the back of his brain, but their meaning still eludes him. It doesn't matter much. Their tone alone gets the meaning across. They're not amused by his behavior, and they want him to stop. The tapping on the glass echoes louder around him.

_Will you stop that?_

He jerks his hand again, and it knocks hard against the glass in front of him. He smirks despite the pain when the voice halts, startled into silence.

_Now where were we?_

He struggles to open his eyes, but his lids feel like lead. He persists though, pushed on by a building sense of urgency. He doesn't know what is going on, or where he is. But wherever that is, the feeling slowly creeps up on him as the fog around his brain starts to clear, it's not where he belongs.

The world is still quite dark when he finally achieves his goal, dark and blurry, and he blinks repeatedly in a futile attempt to clear the fluid from his eyes. Dark, but not pitch black, and he can make out two blurry silhouettes before and slightly below him, heads tilted up towards him. The sight of them sends a shiver up his spine.

This is wrong. He should not be here. But where else would he be then, if not here? The memory eludes him, and that realization sends him into a panic. He should not be here. He should _not_ be here. He should not be _here,_ wherever _here_ is _._ He needs to get away. He needs to go back to... back to...

He flails blindly, his heel bumping into the glass wall behind him as his palms hit the glass in front, and claustrophobia bears down upon him like a boulder as it dawns on him finally that he's completely and utterly trapped. He jerks back and one of his clumsy limbs tangles on _something_ , and when he pulls to free his arm, the cursed contraption is pulled free from his face. Bubbles float up sluggishly before his eyes as an alarm starts sounding painfully loud around him.

The taps come back as knocks, quick and loud and echoing around him.

“Stop it, you're not ready to come out yet!” one of the figures yells at him through the glass, leaning in close enough for him to make out its not-quite human features. He doesn't have the time to freak out about the thing's appearance, however, as he suddenly finds himself quite busy freaking out about the burning in his lungs. Something nags at his head as his hand reaches up to claw at his chest. He needs something... he needs to _do_ something... what is he forgetting?

 _Breathe_ , the word comes to him, followed by its meaning moments later. He pushes the remaining air out of his lungs in one large bubble, before taking in a large, desperate gulp of fluid. It's thick and cold, and it immediately dawns upon him that he has made a grave mistake. He flails and gasps desperately, immediately trying to push the fluid back out as it invades his lungs. His fist hits the glass hard, the cracking noise loud enough to be heard over the alarm.

The world seems to fall down around him, and then he's falling too as the glass door suddenly swings open. His body hits the floor heavily with a _squelch_ and a _thud_ , and pain whips up his right side where he landed on the cold tiles. But it's nothing compared to the burning in his chest as he simultaneously tries to cough up the invasive liquid and fill his lungs with oxygen.

He ignores the figures looming over him as he hacks out the dark green goop, his whole body convulsing with it as he futilely attempts to get his arms underneath himself to find purchase on the cold slick floor. The alarm stops.

“It's a damaged one. Mojo will not be happy.”

“It's also strong. Maybe it doesn't matter it came out early.”

“Strong, but extremely stupid.”

The words barely register as he continues coughing, green slime oozing sickly down his chin. He's going to throw up.

“We should just dispose of it.”

“It'll take too long to grow another one. It'll have to do.”

“Hmm. Maybe.”

He starts shivering as the fluid cools on his skin. He gasps in full mouthfuls of air as his lungs finally clear, accepting it instead of trying to force it back out. His limbs are weak and he just lies there on his side as his heart tries to beat its way out of his ribcage.

“Its vitals are within acceptable ranges. It has all its limbs.”

“It does have all its limbs.”

“It has all its limbs,” one of the figures repeats, slowly. “That's more than can be said for some of them.”

“It is, indeed.”

“And its DNA shows sings of a particularly interesting mutation,” it continues thoughtfully, pausing as if in consideration.

He reaches up to wipe the slime off his face, opening his eyes briefly to a blinding white room, and closing them again as the light burns his unused retinas.

“It might prove to be entertaining,” the other figure concedes. They look at each other for a long moment. Eventually, the first figure nods.

“It is decided, then. It will be sent to the arenas,” its tone is final, as if daring someone to to challenge its decision. The room is empty but for the two of them, and the body shivering at their feet.

“Did you hear that, human?” the second figure directs at him. Its voice grates on his nerves, but he hopes if he ignores it it will go away. “You will be allowed to live,” it adds magnanimously when it receives no response. An uncomfortable silence follows.

“Maybe its hearing is malfunctioning,” the other theorizes, its voice curious.

“Maybe. Is your hearing malfunctioning, human?” it approaches him, reaching out with a long-fingered hand. He blinks his eyes open against the blinding light in time to see it coming, recoiling away from it.

“I don't think its hearing is malfunctioning. Maybe it's just stupid. It did come out too early,” the second figure says. “Can you understand us, human?” it drawls slowly, in the condescending tone only a few can achieve even through years and years of practice. It steps closer, and he finally finds it in him to try to fight back. He slips and slides on the tiled floor as he attempts to get to his feet, managing only to slip back to his hands and knees with a wet squelch.

“Get away from me,” he grits out hoarsely, snarling at them. He feels an odd tingling in his palms.

The figure stops its approach. It looks at its companion, who has a victorious sharp-toothed grin on its face.

“It would appear the human is capable of expressing itself verbally. Not completely stupid, then,” it declares.

“Not completely, no. Just very stupid.”

“Very, but not _completely_ ,” it says triumphantly. “Within the norm for its species, I would say. Fascinating creatures.”

“Stupid and fascinating, yes.”

“Very stupid, but very fascinating,” it nods.

He looks around himself in a panic, trying to find an escape route while the two figures are distracted with each other, but the only door is on the other side of the expansive room, behind the disturbing creatures. He could try to make a run for it, hope the figures are slow, but his limbs barely respond to him.

“It will need to be cleaned up and examined before we send it to the pens.”

To his back there's nothing but the glass chamber he came out of. To his sides, rows of identical chambers, some empty, some containing eerily floating figures of varying shapes and sizes. He bites back the bile trying to come up his throat. He's had enough of shit coming out of his mouth for a lifetime.

“The exams should determine whether it's fit for combat...”

He needs to get out. His odds might not be good, but the two creatures are distracted, and he might not get a better chance than this one. He eyes the door once more, estimating its distance. He wills the muscles of his legs to work, preparing himself for his move and cursing when they react sluggishly. He manages to plant his feet on the floor, setting them firmly and praying he'll find the traction he needs.

“It ought to be good for one fight at least...”

His hands shake in anticipation. It is now or never, if he waits too long his window of opportunity might vanish. He pushes himself to his feet with a loud grunt and an inordinate amount of effort, his stomach sinking as he realizes there is no way he'll outrun the creatures even if they are slower than they look. The figures turn to look at him, and he learns that surprise is a universal enough expression to be recognizable even in their alien features.

“Now, human, you are not ready to be exerting yourself yet -”

He lunges forward with a roar, driven by utter desperation. The figures are a full feet or two taller than him, but his body knows to override his flight instinct. His only chance is to fight, and he finds his hand closing around one of the creature's faces before he can think about it.

It's loud and messy. His face is showered by blood and bits of flesh as the alien's head explodes grotesquely, his hand closing around air where there was previously none. His feet slide on the floor, but he manages to retain his footing, staring in shock as the creature's headless body crumples to the ground before him. He feels something at the back of his throat again. _Disgust_ , he thinks. But also something else. Unfamiliar, but not entirely unpleasant. Something that pushes him to keep moving, to absorb what has just happened, and use it to his advantage.

“Y-you-” the other creature stares at him with an odd expression on its face. It takes him a moment to recognize it, with surprise, as absolute terror. And he thinks, for the first time, he might have a chance at escaping.

That is, before the door opens and half a dozen creatures come pouring in holding what he somehow recognizes as a wide range of guns and various weapons.

“Guards!” the remaining figure yells, running away from him. “Take it down!”

Emboldened by the sight of the body lying motionless at his feet, he turns to face them. Adrenaline is pumping freely through his veins, strengthening his muscles and making him feel weightless. He can do this. It is his one chance, and he will not throw it away. He growls at them, baring his teeth and bracing himself as firmly as he can on the slippery floor, and sees some of them hesitate with no small amount of satisfaction.

It's over almost as soon as it begins. He's determined. He'll either escape or go down fighting. He charges at the closest figure, hands ready and vibrating with energy. But before he can reach it, a shock runs down his spine, sending him tumbling to the ground. The pain is excruciating, and it tears a scream from his unused throat.

He recognizes faintly, beneath the pain clouding up his thoughts, that he must've been shot. His last scream, before he passes out, is one of anguish. It echoes off the walls.


	2. Runner

Despite alliances being rare, and friendships even rarer, rumors spread like wildfire in the slave quarters. 

A _runner_ , they said, had managed to blow the head off a _whitecoat_. Not a small feat, which had half of them whispering about it in excitement and the other half in scoffing incredulity. Not that escape attempts werecompletely unheard of. It seemed the instinct was just ingrained so deeply in some species' DNA that even careful genetic engineering could not completely remove it. But they were uncommon enough to warrant some curiosity from the common population, even if these attempts were never successful.

Not that this one was an exception to that rule, of course, but, if the rumors were true, it certainly set a new precedent for the most _interesting_ one so far. 

As for Gaveedra Seven, he rather thought the story a complete waste of his time. If anyone had indeed managed to kill a _whitecoat_ –which already seemed highly unlikely– , they would no doubt be disposed of post-haste. _Whitecoats_ , everyone knew, are _untouchable_. A shame for someone who, runner or not, already sounded far more competent than half of his cadre, if only half as smart as most of them. A shame, but none of his concern. He had more important things to occupy himself with than tales of dead men. 

Gaveedra does not like being surprised, and he does not like being wrong. Which is why it's fortunate that neither happens frequently. And _both_ , rarely. Unfortunately for him, _rarely_ is not _never_. 

It's been five full days since the rumor mill started grinding, and even here people lose interest quickly. What was an exciting story on the first day is now little more than an anecdote. You can only hear the same story so many times before it loses its luster, especially when the details are so lacking. Even a fun, bloody one like this one. 

How did it go? Rogue one, _male_ , pounces, _unprovoked_ , on an unsuspecting _whitecoat_ , foaming at the mouth, and _tears its head clean off_ _its shoulders_ _with his bare hands_. It takes a small squad of guards, _six_ , eight, _no, a dozen_ , to take him down and take him _away._ Away to... to... to where exactly? To his execution, most probably, is everyone's best guess. With no additional details forthcoming after the initial story started running, most seem to share Gaveedra's opinion that the runner must have been canceled for his offense. After all, many have been canceled for much less. 

It has been five days and they have all been locked up in their individual cells, as is their routine, when it happens. It's the middle of the night and most have been asleep for hours, but Gaveedra's woken up by a soft mechanic whir as the door at the opposite end of the hallway slides open. He's not the only one, apparently, as the echoing sound of footsteps is followed by silent murmurs rolling his way like a wave from the opposite end of the hall. 

He keeps his eyes closed, but the occurrence is unusual enough that he becomes alert as the sound of footsteps becomes louder. Guards do not tend to patrol during the night. There's no need for it. The blue, faintly-shimmering field serving as the only separation between the slaves and the outside world looks deceivingly innocuous. Gaveedra knows it will fry anyone foolhardy enough to try to escape to a crisp in a matter of seconds. He has seen it first hand. It's gruesome, and not exactly painless, but rather efficient as far as deaths go. A quick death, but a dishonorable one. And as such, one he plans to avoid at all costs. 

His curiosity gets the better of him as the footsteps approach, and they're loud enough to count now. _Two men_ , he thinks. Or one, if it's a xardonian guard, except the tempo seems to suggest otherwise. He opens his eyes, but stays otherwise still as he tries to adjust to the darkness. There's nothing to be seen save for the neighboring cell across the corridor. 

He can hear their voices now – two guards – but even with his enhanced hearing he cannot make out the individual words until they get closer. Which they do. He doesn't realize he's holding his breath until they step into view. His cell is at the very end of the hallway. 

“This is the right one,” one of them says, and Gaveedra can distinguish little more than their silhouettes as his eyes adjust to the dark. One of them is oddly-shaped, and it takes him a moment to realize the reason. 

“Just unlock the cell so we can leave,” says his partner, shifting a bulk of considerable size in his arms. The first one chuckles at him, an ugly gritting sound. 

“Why so nervous?” he says mockingly. “Afraid it will wake up?” he laughs again. 

If he wasn't fully awake before, now he is. The murmurs from the other cells have quieted, as if everyone is intent on following the conversation. 

“Just get on with it,” the second one says. “I'm not particularly eager to get my head blown off. 'Sides, it might be small, but it's heavy like a sack of rocks!” 

The first guard retorts with what is probably another derisive comment as he scans his hand on the lock to the cell across from Gaveedra's, but he's no longer paying attention. The second guard turns and he can just about make out the shape of a dangling arm hanging off of whatever – _whoever_ , he corrects himself, except the answer by now is obvious – the guard is carrying. 

Gaveedra dislikes being surprised, and he dislikes being wrong. But above all, he hates being _both_. 

The body is tossed unceremoniously into the cell, hitting the floor with a dull _thud_ and a grunt, at least three feet from the mattress. It remains motionless, though, probably unconscious, as the guard scans his hand once again and the blue sheen of the field springs back into existence with a soft whoosh. 

Gaveedra stares at the body in the cell across the hall long after the guards have left. The murmurs resume, and then die down as they inevitably do. But the shape of the runner, annoyingly, remains burned in his retinas even after he closes his eyes. 

 

* * *

 

  

When he wakes up, his first thought is that someone must've removed his bones and replaced them with pure liquid pain. He tries to move, and immediately regrets it when his neck muscles seize up in the absolute worst fashion imaginable.

“Ugh!” 

The floor is cold and unbelievably hard beneath him, and he can feel it in every bone and joint pressed awkwardly against it. Moving is painful, but staying still is almost worst, so he tries again, with slow, measured movements. It takes him a minute, but he manages to roll over and then sit up, and when he does he becomes aware of the sounds around him. 

He opens his eyes and takes in his surroundings. He's surrounded by metal walls on three sides, the fourth one a blue-tinted incorporeal film, like stained glass if you removed the glass and left its color. Beyond this wall, a corridor. Beyond the corridor, voices; and across it, an empty room almost identical to his own. 

He doesn't need to touch the incorporeal wall – a _field_ , a knowing voice in the back of his head provides helpfully – to know it's a terrible idea. He's trapped, but somehow the thought doesn't send him into an immediate panic as it did when he first woke up days ago. It's almost a small relief, that the past five days are finally over. 

He looks down at himself and the clothes he's wearing. Someone must've changed them, and though the thought of anyone here touching him in any way while he was out is nauseating, at least now he's wearing more than the flimsy white gown he'd been given on the second day. So that's a step forward. Next step is to figure out where the hell he is. 

Which is easier said than done considering that not only is he trapped, but he cannot remember how he got here in the first place. As a matter of fact, he cannot remember _anything_ prior to waking up in that tank. And that is a disconcerting thought. More than that, he just cannot shake the feeling that he's missing something, and not just something small. And he intends to find out what it is, as soon as he gets out of here. 

He's dragged out of his thoughts as the field blinks out with a soft static sound. Another step in the right direction, as he'll never get anywhere if he stays in this room, in this _cell_. His trepidation is strong, and if the past days are anything to go by, he probably won't like what's beyond it. Except the absent field feels less like an invitation to step out and more like an order. 

He pushes himself to his feet, wincing as his stiff bones crack. The voices beyond the corridor make him anxious; his experience with other beings so far has not been the most positive, to put it lightly. But he shakes it off and replaces it with determination, and reminds himself that his situation cannot possibly get worse. 

He steps out into the corridor, and to absolutely no one's surprise, finds it lined with dozens of cells like the one he just stepped out of. _So there are others_ , he thinks. Others like him. Maybe. Whatever they are. Whatever he is, other that _someone_ with the most basic self-awareness. And isn't it just depressing that he cannot even figure that out? 

He follows the sound of the voices. He steps out of the corridor and into another one, listening carefully and poking his head around the corner as he does. Is he even supposed to be out here? The lack of any guidance or direction is disconcerting, but not exactly unwelcome. 

He probably should've heard the approaching footsteps, but he was too focused on figuring out which direction to go to find the not-so-distant voices, though if he should walk towards them or away from them is yet to be determined. As he turns a corner, a rather substantial body bumps hard against him, knocking him back and knocking the air out of his lungs. 

“Watch it, gnat!” a man three times his size, all muscle, snarls at him. His skin color seems slightly off, rather towards the blue end of the spectrum, and a large pair of canines protrude prominently from his lower jaw. He looks like he could eat him alive. 

So of course he proceeds with caution. 

“ _You_ watch it, oaf.” 

Or not.

Surprise registers briefly in the larger man's features – probably unused to someone with a fraction of his bulk standing up to him– , and something akin to recognition which makes him hesitate for a moment. Whatever it is that causes it, he is not about to question it. He looks around quickly, looking for a way out, but the only way is back towards the corridor with all the cells, and there, a dead end. 

“Mierda.”

 His last thought before a fist the size of a small dog collides with his face is that the oaf looks even dumber when he's angry.

 

* * *

  

“Did you hear?”

Gaveedra ignores Ku'ux Six in favor of eating his food. He can make an educated guess as to what he's referring to, but knows he'll hear the answer whether he's interested or not. Ku'ux does not disappoint.

“The runner is here!” he says, like people have not been whispering about it for the past half hour. Heads turn in their direction, and Gaveedra ignores them until they turn away as they realize there's no gossip to be gained from them.

“I know,” he says more discreetly as Ku'ux sits next to him with his own bowl.

“So you heard about it?”

He did, but he didn't need to. He glances around before replying low enough that others won't hear.

“He was placed in the cell across from my own.”

A look of excitement crosses Ku'ux's features. Gaveedra finds himself unable to match it.

“Really? What does he look like?” he asks, to which Gaveedra just shrugs. It had been too dark at night, and this morning he pointedly avoided looking at the new arrival as he left his cell. “Wait, so you did _not_ hear about it then.”

This makes him pause, curiosity piqued before he tries to smother it. He just stares Ku'ux down, and that's all the encouragement the other needs to continue.

“He got himself into a fight with Brakk just now,” he says excitedly, a slanted grin pulling at his lips, like it's the funniest thing he's heard in ages, maybe even his whole life. It probably is.

“What? Already?” Gaveedra cannot completely hide his surprise.

Ku'ux nods.

“Heard about it from Drogan. He saw the whole thing,” he says, and that alone convinces Gaveedra that it's true. Drogan is not one to lie.

“Did you say Brakk?” he asks, knowing he didn't mishear. "Brakk Five?" he waits for clarification, and cringes in something that approaches sympathy, or as close to it as he can manage, when the other shakes his head and holds up three fingers. “Well, this one didn't last long. I suppose they'll be taking his body away soon,” he says, taking another spoonful into his mouth. Maybe they'll get to see it before it's dragged away. That is always interesting.

Ku'ux just grins in that way that grates at Gaveedra's nerves and makes him wonder why he even bothers talking to him. The way that says ' _I know something that you don't... and I'm about to tell you all about it_ '.

Before he can open his mouth though, an impenetrable silence descends upon the canteen. Gaveedra looks up, unable to ignore his curiosity, and even he cannot hide his surprise.

Standing in the doorway, against all odds, is someone who can only be the runner. He knows every face in this place, every model, and can even distinguish between members of the same line. His face is unfamiliar, though, and it would be even without the blood smeared on it. He looks warily around the room like he's expecting someone to jump him. He's holding an arm protectively to his ribs.

Ku'ux whistles.

It's the first good look Gaveedra gets at him, but it confirms what he could only get a vague impression of from the brief glance he spared him this morning. The runner is surprisingly, uncharacteristically _small_. Not the type of frame he'd consider appropriate for fighting. 

“He is... tiny,” Ku'ux says, echoing his thoughts in a disappointed tone. And he's not the only one who noticed. Confused murmurs slowly start filling in the silence.

The runner turns away from all the eyes on him, apparently having decided no one is about to attack him unprovoked, and takes a good look around the room. He spots the food counter and strides decisively towards it, joining the short line waiting there. He looks so out of place it's almost painful. Gaveedra tries to remember if he ever felt as lost as the runner looks when he was in his place. He comes up with nothing. Looking at him, it's impossible to reconcile the inoffensive looking form with the warrior the rumors spoke of. The blood on his face might make him look fiercer if it weren't so obviously his own. It's not until he glances down at the runner's hands that he notices the blood on them, but that means nothing. Probably from trying to wipe his face clean, which he did a terrible job of. Does he not know how to clean himself?

“Looks like the rumors were nothing but lies,” he declares, as he tears his attention away from the newcomer and back to his meal. He supposes he should be feeling smug about being right, but something fills his mind with doubt.

Ku'ux just shrugs, confused. They both go back to eating, but they cannot help occasionally sneaking glances at the doorway in silent expectation. Neither of them mention it, but both of them notice that Brakk does not show up.

 

* * *

 

“Ryk One!” a loud, angry-sounding voice echoes in the canteen. He ignores it in favor of... something that most decidedly does not deserve his attention. He stares at the contents of his bowl in disgust, and doesn't bother to hide it. It looks like what can only be accurately described as pasty gray gruel, and tastes even worse. When he takes a small spoonful to his mouth he's unpleasantly surprised by the texture. It's _chunky_ , and _chewy_ , and if his stomach weren't so achingly empty he'd probably just spit it out.

“Ryk One!” the voice repeats, closer this time. The words mean nothing to him, but he cannot help but feel like he's missing something as he notices the multiple stares directed his way. He ignores them, trying to chew the mouthful in his mouth and opting to just swallow it down when the movement irritates the gash on his lip. He dabs at it carefully with his sleeve. At least it's no longer bleeding freely.

“Ryk One,” the gruff voice repeats one more time sounding decidedly unamused. It's owner is now standing right behind him, so he looks over his shoulder. A tall – seriously, why is everyone so much taller than him – man looks down at him like most would look at something stuck to the soles of their boots. It takes him embarrassingly long to realize he's talking to him.

“Can I help you?” he asks slowly, feeling like he must've said something wrong when quiet snickers bloom up all around him and the guard's face turns an unappealing shade of purple.

“Ryk One,” the guard repeats one more time, sounding like a broken record. “You will respond when spoken to, and you will address your superiors with the respect befitting their station. Is that understood?” he asks in a tone that makes it clear there is only one right answer to that question, and there will be hell to pay if he receives a wrong one.

Ryk One. Is that his name? It appears to be the case, but it elicits no recognition in him. He's not sure how he feels about it, but that is something he can explore later. Right now, he realizes, the guard is staring at him expectantly. All seven feet of him, plus curved, scary-looking horns. Ryk will have to do, he supposes. It's not like he has anything better.

“Understood,” he says, adding uncertainly as he guard keeps staring at him, if only because he would really like to avoid a repeat of the earlier incident, “... sir?”

The startled snickers are louder this time, and the guard pinches his broad, ridged nose like he's trying very hard to keep himself from doing something impulsive. He murmurs something that sounds like ' _that will do_ ', and takes a deep breath before glancing down at him.

“You are to follow me,” he says simply, turning around and marching out of the canteen. “Now,” he stresses, without waiting or turning around, when Ryk hesitates, staring both hatefully and longingly at his gruel. He rises to his feet, uncomfortably aware of the deafening silence and all the stares on him, and goes after the guard. He does his best to catch up to him without running, trying to avoid jostling his bruised ribs after the beat down he received earlier. Not an easy feat, considering their height difference and the taller man's brisk pace.

Dread settles in his stomach. He hasn't been awake for longer than an hour, and yet he cannot seem to keep himself from getting into trouble. Is he in trouble? Is this about the fight earlier? He hadn't started it. He certainly hadn't finished it either, getting in just a lucky shot before the oaf had been called away by another guard who just ignored Ryk. He does not kid himself into thinking he'd still be standing if that hadn't been the case. The man had looked _pissed_ after Ryk punched one of his tusks out. His hand is still hurting from it. And his face is still hurting from the other's fist. That punch felt like running full speed into a wall, or what he imagines doing that would feel like.

He follows the guard into an empty room, trying to ignore the feeling of dread that falls upon him. Is this gonna be another beat down? He tries to keep himself between the guard and the door, in case he needs to make a run for it, but the guard seems completely uninterested in him, walking into an adjacent room and coming out a minute later with a bunch of clothes and a pair of boots.

“You will wear this,” he says, dropping the items into Ryk's arms. “And you will join the others for training. You get a pass because you're new here and the higher-ups are for some reason curious about you. But make no mistake,” he says lowly, his expression threatening as a snarl without any need for the bared teeth, “this does not get you special treatment, and any further insolence will not be tolerated.”

“Understood, sir,” he says, craning his neck up to look at his face and trying not to wince.

The guard nods. Then turns around and heads back into the adjacent room. Ryk stands there awkwardly, wondering if he's supposed to leave now, but before he can make up his mind the guard comes back holding a metallic ring that looks rather small in his extensive hands.

“And before I forget,” he says casually. “You are to wear this at all times,” he says, unlatching the clasp and moving in to fit the thing like a collar around Ryk's neck before he can protest. “Wouldn't want a repeat of that little stunt you pulled in the labs,” he explains. It locks seamlessly into place, an uncomfortable pressure on his collarbone. A moment later, the oddest feeling comes over him, like something fundamental is being sucked forcefully out of him. The feeling takes his breath away more effectively than any punch, and makes something turn in his almost empty stomach. All of a sudden he feels disconnected from the world around him, a connection he hadn't been aware of until it was lost to him. And the floor beneath his bare feet feels nothing but hard and cold and _lifeless_. He recognizes detachedly, almost curiously, that whatever power he could feel tingling under his skin, is now gone. He stares at his hands.

And then terror slowly starts creeping on him as he realizes he has been rendered completely and utterly helpless.

"I'd watch my back during training. Brakk Three did not look very happy with you,” the guard says almost cheerfully. If he notices how pale Ryk has gone, and he has to, he doesn't acknowledge it. “Do you have any questions?”

Trying to ignore his whole world, limited as it was, crumbling around him, he swallows. His hands are shaking, and he wills them to steady. They're still stained with blood, as is his face, so he focuses on that. If he doesn't, he's afraid he will pass out.

“Where are the showers?” he asks firmly, and he'd be proud of how steady his voice sounds if he didn't feel like the rest of him was collapsing. If only he can get himself clean, perhaps, he can make it out of this. A minuscule, almost insignificant first step in the right direction. But a first step nonetheless. And maybe if he takes it, however small it is, he tells himself, he can make himself keep moving.

The guard stares at him intensely before responding.

“Showers,” he says measuredly, like talking to a particularly slow individual, “are after training. No exceptions.” Ryk nods, feeling like the floor is sinking beneath his feet and unwilling to trust his voice further. “Any other questions?”

Ryk shakes his head, and manages to grit out.

“No, sir.”

The guard pauses, giving him a weird look.

“Then that will be all. You are dismissed.”

 


	3. Weak

To Ku'ux's intense disappointment and Gaveedra's indifference, the runner does not join their training session. Probably assigned, for the best, really, to a different training room. He doesn't particularly enjoy the thought of his training being disrupted, which it definitely would have been if everyone was too busy measuring up the newcomer instead of training like they're supposed to.

Ku'ux still would not shut up about him, though.

“Can you believe his nerve?” he asks him for what has got to be the tenth time even as he charges towards him, twin curved blades in his hands. “I've never seen someone talk to the guards like that.”

Gaveedra sidesteps and brings his sword up to block. They are well-matched, Gaveedra's speed being just enough to give him an edge over Ku'ux's superior strength. That, along with the ability to think on his feet, makes Ku'ux an outstanding sparring partner. He is one of the few warriors in their block able to provide a challenge for him. Gaveedra, in turn, is one of the few warriors willing and able to put up with his verbosity. They work well together.

“So you keep saying,” he says, twisting his wrist and flicking the other's weapon out of his hand with no small amount of satisfaction. “Perhaps your attention would serve you better aimed at this fight.”

“Perhaps,” Ku'ux agrees easily, stepping back smoothly like he doesn't suddenly find himself at a disadvantage. The way he glances down briefly at his fallen sword is not lost on Gaveedra. But he won't let him get it back easily. “But you're distracted too. I need to take it easy on you.”

Gaveedra frowns at that. He's used to Ku'ux taunting him in an attempt to get him to let his guard down. It never works, but a small part of him is willing to admit that it rubs him the wrong way this time. Perhaps because all this talk about the runner is wearing his patience thin. Perhaps because he prides himself in his exceptional focus during battle.

“I am not,” he says, slightly offended. Unlike his partner, he knows better than to waste his thoughts on matters that are none of his concern. And the runner is most definitely none of his concern, no matter how concerned others seem with him. Not that he has to prove it.

“You are,” his sparring partner insists, having somehow managed to pull out a knife without Gaveedra noticing and throwing it at him. Its aim is true, and Gaveedra is too slow to react. It lodges itself on the back of his hand.

“Fekt!” he curses, more at himself than anything else, and drops his sword in surprise. He takes a step back and takes a defensive stance, holding his second sword in front of him and narrowing his eyes at the other man. “Only because you keep talking,” he snarls. Ku'ux's stunt would've never worked on a regular day, and he knows he will never hear the end of it.

Just what he needs, a reason for Ku'ux to keep on talking.

He risks prying his eyes off his opponent for a moment, inspecting the damage to his hand. The knife pierced his flesh all the way through, the hilt resting snuggly against the back of his hand. It was a good throw, precise, accurate, the width of the blade parallel to the bones it lodged itself between, like it was probably intended. It will heal quickly. He grips the hilt with his uninjured hand and rips it off with little care, throwing it to the ground. It hurts, but the pain is nothing new.

He's about to bend down to retrieve his fallen sword when he suddenly finds a shorter one aimed at his throat. In his distraction, Ku'ux had managed to retrieve his own and sneaked up on him without his notice.

“Do I have your attention yet?” he asks mockingly, clearly enjoying this more than he had any right to. It was not often that he gained the upper hand against Gaveedra. It was even less often that Gaveedra let him keep it.

Gaveedra grins, a shrewd, bloodthirsty thing. It was hard to stay mad when the fight turned interesting.

“You'll have to earn it first,” he retorts, pushing Ku'ux's sword away with his own, and punching him in hard in the face with his bloody fist. The resulting cracking noise of his nose breaking is very satisfying. It more than makes up for the pain that shoots up all the way to his shoulder.

“Fekt!”

 

* * *

 

 

Ryk's day does not get any better. He does not know where he's supposed to go, and spends five minutes walking aimlessly through the hallways, peeking into open doors and bypassing closed ones. There are no signs indicating where to go. Fear and insecurity weight down upon him, but he pushes past them and tries to just clear his mind and keep his feet moving.

He follows the sound of voices, turning left at an intersection and walking to an open door on the right hand side some forty feet down the corridor. This place, whatever it is, is far larger than he'd initially imagined. And with all the corridors looking the same to him, it's impossible not to get lost. He only hopes he'll manage to find his way back to his room – his _cell_ , his brain corrects once again – once the day is over.

And then what? He wonders as his body moves automatically. He does his best to ignore everyone around him and turns his back on the rest of the locker room. He's aware of the eyes on him, the way conversations halt and the murmurs take on a different tone. It doesn't matter. It won't matter once he finds a way out of here. He just has to make it through, one day at a time, until he finds a way out of this hellhole.

He sets the new set of clothes down on a bench, and starts stripping off the ones he's wearing. He's careful, when he takes off his shirt, to pull his hair down quickly to cover the metallic collar around his neck. It makes him feel vulnerable – well, more vulnerable than he was already feeling without it – and he's got the feeling that many here would love to exploit that. He hesitates for a moment before pulling his pants down, figuring there's no point in being modest. Better to just get this over with. Just keep moving, don't think too hard about it. Nothing that happens here matters, as long as he doesn't get himself killed.

He puts on his new clothes, noticing with relief that the shirt's high collar covers most of his neck. He pulls it on over the collar around his neck, trying not to be too obvious, and nervously rearranges his hair once more. It is a small blessing that the device is not bulky, but he still wishes he could look himself in a mirror to reassure himself it's covered properly.

He picks up the discarded shirt and uses the sleeve to wipe down his face carefully. It does not help much what with the blood already crusting, but it does remove some of the browning flakes. His lip is the worst of it, but there's also a gash under his left eye that's making his skin swell. He's careful not to aggravate them, rubbing gently around them, before discarding the shirt, leaving it in a pile next to his pants. He figures he'll need them later, after taking a shower, but there is nowhere to leave them other than the benches lining the wall. He hopes they'll still be here after training, whatever that entails.

 

* * *

 

By the time he makes it to the showers his body is just about ready to give up on him.

He kept to himself, running laps around the training room for as long as his legs could manage and until his lungs were ready to burst. He took to a punching bag hanging lonely in a corner, and determinedly avoided the group sparring in pairs at the other end of the room. And, once he realized that – despite him stretching it as long as he could – training was nowhere near over, he repeated it all.

It was oddly satisfying, at first. Running gave him the chance to clear his mind and calm himself down. He kept it up for as long as he could, despite the others overtaking him lap after lap. He took out his frustrations on the punching bag. Having something to focus on allowed him to ignore the others around him. But he could only keep it up for so long before his body let him know he was overdoing it. He had to pause at one point when he thought he was going to throw up. At least it looked like they had the freedom to train as they deemed appropriate. He stretched as an excuse as he caught his breath, and used the opportunity to study the others around him, aware all the time of the guards stationed around the room looking ready to intervene if it looked like anyone was slacking off.

Not that anyone did.

He frowns as he steps under the cold spray, gritting his teeth to keep them from chattering and forcing himself to stay under it. He needs this shower, and he's waited all day for it. He's worked hard for it. And he's determined to go through with it even if it kills him. He glares at the bar of soap on the shelf before him, and picks it up, gripping it perhaps with more force than necessary. He starts rubbing it between his hands.

His arms are so tired he can barely lift them, but he manages, perhaps more slowly than he would've wanted. He rubs the blood off his face until the water runs clear. Then washes his hair, and then, his body. He is done by the time he gets used to the cold water, but he's taken long enough already so he steps out before someone drags him out.

He keeps his face turned down and to the wall as much as he can without making it obvious. He finds his clothes and resists the urge to pull on his shirt before patting himself dry. He breathes a sigh of relief once his shirt is on and the collar is concealed once more, and then he finishes dressing himself.

He's glad to be finally out of that room, even if it means trying to figure out his way around this place. He follows two men down the hallway, keeping his distance, trying not to make it entirely obvious how lost he really is. He doesn't know where they are going but figures that, wherever that is, is probably just as bad as any other place.

He hopes there's food.

  

* * *

 

“Don't you think it's strange they made a new model halfway through the season?”

They're sitting side by side, their backs to the wall behind them, cradling identical bowls in their hands. The canteen is filling up as everyone returns from their training. It has been a long day, and Gaveedra and Ku'ux called their training to an end early enough to avoid the long queues that usually form outside the showers.

“I heard someone say they're experimenting with some new technology,” says Atali Eleven, joining them and sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of them. “Something to replace one of the more outdated models,” she says seriously, pointedly not looking at Ku'ux.

“Hilarious. You are never getting rid of us,” he says, mouth half full. “The Audience thinks we're highly entertaining.”

Gaveedra focuses on his meal, starving after the arduous workout and grateful to have something to fill his stomach. He is perfectly content excluding himself from the conversation and letting the other two argue this one out. The food is almost warm today.

“The Audience thinks you are amusing. There is a difference.”

“There is not.”

He tries to tune them out as he inspects his hand – healed over on the back, he notices approvingly, and no scarring on the palm either when he turns it over –, and succeeds for the most part. Until, unsurprisingly and unavoidably, Ku'ux decides to bring the conversation to him.

“Tell her, Gaveedra,” he says, turning to him. And adds when he sees the blank look on his face. “Explain to this bonehead that we're not outdated, just _experienced_.”

Gaveedra calmly finishes chewing and swallowing the gelatinous bits, aware they're waiting for his response. He had hoped they'd just leave him out of the conversation, but it seems luck is not with him today. And as it is, he thinks he might be beginning to understand his sparring partner's obsession with the newcomer.

“You are outdated,” he says, directing his response at Ku'ux instead of Atali. He continues before he can be interrupted. “They haven't made a new Ku'ux in three seasons. You and Eight are the last of your line remaining, and you will continue to be the last.”

A harsh reality, and even more harshly-phrased, but one that must be faced by all sooner or later. Hopefully harsh enough he'll be left alone to enjoy his meal.

“There is no shame in that,” Atali says, no ill in her words. “You have fought well-beyond what was expected of you and your line. You have outlived your brothers, and in doing so brought honor to all of them. That is something to be proud of,” she adds earnestly.

Ku'ux doesn't look any happier.

“You two are the worst friends,” he says grumpily, staring down at his bowl and falling uncharacteristically silent.

 _Friend_ _s_ , he says. The misnomer bothers him, and Gaveedra wonders if he should correct him, but it seems unnecessarily cruel. Ku'ux might be troublesomely emotional at times, but he's Gaveedra's ally. They have fought together and protected each other for many seasons. He has his respect, if nothing else. And so he has no wish to inflict unnecessary emotional pain upon him.

Atali has no such reservations.

“I am not your friend. Given the chance to fight you in the arena, I would not hesitate to cut your head clean off your shoulders,” she states easily, with absolutely no hesitation.

Ku'ux, fortunately, takes it for the peace offering it is.

“Me too, kid,” he says. Quick, painless deaths are not very entertaining, and as such rarely wasted on the undeserving. Such a gift is only rarely bestowed upon those who have earned your respect. “I'd consider it an honor.”

The admission and the resulting silence make him uncomfortable, so he tries to change the topic.

“It's not too bad being discontinued,” he offers with what he hopes does not sound like sympathy. “You don't have to compete for ratings with another of your kind.” He's never met another of his line. All long-dead by now, he assumes, or assigned to different blocks. The former seems more likely.

Ku'ux seems to consider this, his expression thoughtful.

“What you're saying is,” Ku'ux says slowly, “that my ratings will double if Eight is canceled.”

“He's more popular than you, so they will probably triple,” Atali says.

Gaveedra nods in agreement.

“At least.”

Gaveedra finishes his meal and sets the bowl on the floor. His hair is still wet, but he tries to untangle it anyway, carefully running his fingers through it and working out the knots. The canteen is busy around them, some groups sitting at the safest spots they have managed to procure with their backs against the wall. Many, sitting on their own or standing, eat hurriedly. Easy prey. They don't last long. Even newcomers learn to form alliances, or join existing ones. Strength in numbers. Those who don't are either old, veterans whose only allies have died in battle, or those unwanted by everyone else. The weak, the defective, the exiled.

The latest addition to their block sits by himself close to a corner of the room, apparently relegated to the second group. He seems to be struggling with his food, and while his face is now clean there's still some blood on his lip and now an obvious gash on his cheekbone. If nothing else that gets Gaveedra's attention. Even if he gained that during training, his healing factor must be slower than most. Something to take note of and use to his advantage if the opportunity presents itself. He's not one to prey on the weaker, thinking it dishonorable to take on a less skilled opponent outside of battle. But it might be useful in the unlikely event they're ever pitted against each other in the arena. Probably unnecessary, but every little piece of knowledge can mean the difference between life and death in this place. He wouldn't put it completely past the Directors to set the runner against a much more experienced opponent. It would not be the longest fight, but it surely would have the potential to be highly entertaining.

The Audience enjoys a bloody massacre as well as it does drawn-out battle between well-matched opponents.

Yet still that thought does not sit well with him. This whole situation is far beyond unusual. He won't admit it to Ku'ux or Atali, but he is slightly intrigued. It seems pointless, not to mention a bad decision, to introduce such an obviously inferior new model to the arenas in this fashion. It is not like the the higher-ups to make such obvious mistakes. There might be something he's missing, but as he scrutinizes the object of his thoughts he cannot find a single piece of evidence, not even a hint, that there might be more to the runner than meets the eye. He looks small, weak, _powerless_ , everything in his posture practically screaming at everyone who bothers to look how uncomfortable and out of his depth he is. Even his attitude is plain strange. He seems to Gaveedra, who has seen countless generations of new slaves joining the pens at the beginning of every season, clueless, for lack of a better word. And something else that he cannot quite put his finger on...

“So _that's_ what they're replacing me with, huh?” Ku'ux's tone is slightly scathing, but resigned. Nothing less than what the situation warrants. Gaveedra would have been offended too if he had been replaced for a much inferior model. At least he's actually saying what he thinks now, instead of dancing around the topic.

“He is rather attractive looking,” Atali says thoughtfully. “You know, for someone so small... Maybe they think the Audience will like it?”

Except it does not make sense, and she sounds like she knows it too. Why bother designing a new model if its sole purpose is to look pretty while dying? _Small, weak, powerless,_ his own thoughts echo in his mind as he stares at the newcomer, trying to decipher this puzzle. His thoughts go back to the first version of the rumor, trying to strip it of its embellished savagery and reconcile it with the pathetic figure sitting on its own, looking slightly gray around the edges as he slowly shoves another spoonful of food in his mouth. What could even prompt such a rumor, if there was not an ounce of truth to it? And yet just looking at him makes it near impossible for Gaveedra to believe a single word of it. To think such a creature capable of disposing of a whitecoat, of putting up a fight, seems preposterous. Such a _small, weak, powerless_...

As if he could feel the weight of Gaveedra's stare, the runner looks up from his solitary meal, sweeping his eyes around the canteen. Their eyes meet for just a moment, before the other looks away, and Gaveedra is almost taken aback by what he sees in them. Not dull and blank, broken, like he was expecting, but fierce. Shining with something that reminds Gaveedra less of the cold glint of steel and more of a roaring fire. Alive, in a way that reminds Gaveedra of the feeling in his chest whenever he wields his swords in battle against a worthy opponent.

Gaveedra rises an eyebrow, little more than a reflex, as he considers this. So there is some fight in him after all. Which is vaguely interesting, but not really important. It won't do him much good in battle against a stronger warrior, a category that encompasses every other single individual in this room. Fierce, but weak. Small, weak...

And, perhaps, not so powerless after all.

The runner turns his head, glancing over his shoulder briefly before going back to his half-finished meal. He reaches up and pulls at the long strands of his brown hair over his shoulder, perhaps little more than a nervous tick quickly developed in this hostile environment. And Gaveedra would have dismissed it as such had he not glimpsed something poking out from beneath the high collar of his shirt. Something he would have missed had he not been staring at the right moment, quickly hidden by the long brown strands. Something that makes a phantom weight settle on his collarbone, and prompts his hand to rise unbidden to his own neck, as something lights up in his brain.

Not _powerless_ , he realizes, his eyes widening a fraction, but _depowered_...

He catches himself in time to hide his surprise, the pieces falling into place in his head. Depowered, but he would not have been when he first came out of the tank. And it's a stretch, but it's also his best guess so far. And the more he thinks about it the more sense it makes. It does not explain his strange attitude, how much he stands out, how clueless he is, or his short, unimpressive build, but it's a start. Why would they design a useless warrior, unless it really wasn't as useless as it seemed? And the collar had to be suppressing _something_.

It could be nothing. A weak, minor power. Nothing out of the ordinary. Many slaves had one, but few relied on them. Genetic engineering still had a long way to go in developing stable mutations, beyond the basics. Enhanced strength and speed. Accelerated healing. Hollow bones. Those were standard. Anything beyond that had little chances of success, and the resulting powers were often unpredictable and hard to control. This was most likely not any different.

Except maybe it was.

Gaveedra tears his eyes away from him, feeling like he has figured something out, or started to at the very least. It does not explain everything, but it answers some questions. _New experimental techniques indeed_ , he thinks, as he finishes untangling his hair. Atali and Ku'ux have moved on to another topic, but the male still looks dejected. He has no desire to join them, but a sudden impulse fueled by something close to excitement prompts him to do something out of character for him.

He gathers his bowl and spoon, and plants his feet on the floor. He slides into a crouch and, before rising to his feet, leans in to whisper something to the other two such that no one else can hear.

“Look at his neck,” he advices, not looking either of them in the eye. “And be discreet.”

Before they can ask what he means, he stands up and walks away. He walks by the runner, but pointedly avoids looking at him. He sets his bowl down on the counter, next to a small pile of others, and walks out of the canteen.

 

* * *

 

 

There _is_ food.

The food _is_. And that's really the best thing that can be said about it.

He sits himself down as close as he can to a corner, figuring the fewer the people sitting at his back the safer he'll be. It makes sense to him, and judging by the way the all four walls are lined with people his assumption is correct.

He is tense, but considers it a high accomplishment that he has managed to get himself this far. It feels like he has passed some sort of test. Day almost over, and his head is still more or less attached to his shoulders. Now he just has to keep repeating it until he gets out of this place.

Except for the fact that he might be expected to fight to the death with someone here at some point. He just hopes that point is in the very distant future, so far you have to really squint to see it. It's not hard to put the pieces together, based on his previous information and the bits and pieces of conversation he's managed to overhear. _Sent to the arenas_ , and _fit for combat_ , the creatures' words echo in his head. They seem to resonate with some piece of knowledge buried deep in his brain. The training, the fighting. The way they are treated like cattle. Talks about an _audience_ , and _ratings_. About _canceling_. Even he cannot miss the obvious.

The obvious being that his sole reason of being is to fight. For his life, and the entertainment of others, apparently. He knows deep down his assumption is correct, with an clear certainty that confounds him in that he has no idea where it comes from, and yet is no less real because of it. More surprisingly, perhaps, is how calm he feels when considering the possibility.

Or perhaps not. It's not like he's planning on staying long enough to find out.

He forces himself to swallow the unpleasant goop, same as they were served earlier that day. Based on the way the others eat around him, he guesses this is not the worst of the food options. He just hopes it's not the best.

He looks up when he feels someone's eyes drilling into him. Anxious, he scans the room, looking to find anyone that seems like a potential threat in the immediate future. It is a hard task when there are so many eyes on him, each pair more intimidating than the last. No one that looks like they're about to attack, though, and he relaxes a fraction of an inch. His eyes pause for a second on another pair staring at him from the other side of the canteen, notorious only in their unusual appearance, one of them surrounded by a six-pointed star. Their owner seems relaxed, though, sitting close to two others and combing his fingers through his long red hair. Ryk's gaze drifts away, looking over his shoulder and convincing himself he is in no immediate danger.

He turns back to his food, reaching up to rearrange his hair in what is quickly becoming a nervous habit. He's going to need to get better at dissimulating. His bowl is half empty, and he's had about as much as he can stomach. Except he's still achingly hungry, and it will only be worse in the morning, he knows.

He holds his breath and soldiers own, swallowing the viscous mass, chunks and all, without even bothering to chew anymore. The faster he swallows, the less he can taste it. Or so he tries to convince himself. The texture makes it hard, and it tries to stick to his tongue and teeth, but eventually he manages to empty his bowl.

The taste, however, lingers in his mouth for hours.


	4. Loud

 

The next two days are not any better, not that he was expecting them to be. Food does not get any better, nor does it get worse. It is literally the same every day, twice a day, and by the time night comes along and it's time to sleep his stomach is empty and cramping and letting him know, loudly, it's time to be filled once again.

Training goes downhill. He must've been really lucky the first day, because the next people are not quite so content to leave him alone. He's paired up against a four-armed beast of a man who looks like he'd love nothing better than to rip his spine out and tie it into a knot. He also looks like the kind of nice determined fellow who just might be able to accomplish it. While it would certainly be an impressive feat, Ryk is not very eager to find out whether he's really capable of it. So he does his best to hold his own, and fails only almost completely. He doesn't really have the reach to hit his opponent without being hit in return, but he's faster and he's a smaller target, and his body knows what to do. He still ends up on the floor more times than he can count, bones rattling and his brain bouncing inside of his skull, but surprisingly the other warrior does not hit him when he's down. He keeps his distance instead, looking bored, and waits for him to get up every single time without saying a word.

His spine is still safely encased inside his body by the end of it, and that's about the best thing that can be said about it.

His muscles hurt with every movement. He's hungry, tired, and something else that that a voice in the back of his head labels as _scared_. And yet that is not even the worst part about his life in the slave pens.

The worst comes on the first day after their second meal. He does some exploring after eating, figuring his way around the labyrinthine mess of corridors and trying to commit them to memory as he tries to find the way back to the corridor with all the cells. He's somehow managed to make it back to the hall leading to the canteen when it happens. The walls all around him flicker to life with no previous warning. They're bright and blinding, and the sounds coming from unseen speakers is deafening. Ryk stumbles, looking around himself wide-eyed and bringing his hands up to cover his ears in a futile attempt to block out the noise. Twenty voices speaking at once, screams, explosions, a deafening roar, and a light show to match each, impossible to disentangle so tightly woven they are to one another.

That night he finds it impossible to sleep, lights flashing behind his eyelids even with his eyes closed, the noises echoing in his ears long after it all stops.

Two days since and the experience does not lose its strength. He has tried looking for someplace, a room, corridor, a single corner where he can escape the blinding, disorienting, overstimulating onslaught. But there is nowhere to hide. The place is covered floor to ceiling in screens that seem to scream at him for hours and don't turn off until it's time to sleep. They make his head feel like it's being pounded by a sledgehammer, the nauseous feeling that comes with it accompanies him until the next morning.

The worst part of it maybe is that everyone else seems unaffected. He's still having his second meal of the day, forcing himself to swallow it and managing only by virtue of how hungry he is, when they blink on once more. He tries to pretend it doesn't take him by surprise, that it doesn't make him jump when they do, and does his best to shut the noise off as he eats. Some others around him continue eating silently like it doesn't bother them in the slightest, and maybe it doesn't. He wonders how long it'll take him to get used to it, and is torn between defiantly hoping that never happens and hoping that it does. The majority, though, seem at least half interested in the broadcasts. Conversations halt, whether because they are listening or because it's almost impossible to hold a conversation with all the noise, he cannot tell.

He is surprised, and slightly relieved, when the competing noises settle into a slightly more manageable single broadcast. Tension suddenly fills the air as everyone stops what they are doing, and he looks up to see that all screens – dozens of them, maybe a hundred – are all now showing the same program. Like a chaotic wave function, suddenly observed, collapsing into a single quantum state.

The air fills with palpable anticipation that makes the hair on his arms stand on end. A voice talks through the speakers as a logo is displayed on the screens, staring ominously down at him and casting a red hue all over the canteen.

_All contenders, prepare for battle. I repeat: all contenders, prepare for battle._

A cold weight settles in his stomach as the implications of the words dawn on him. Does that mean all of them? Does that mean him? This is not what he had hoped for. He is not ready for this. He looks around in alarm to see nothing but excited and expectant expressions on everyone's faces, and hopes his shock shock and ignorance are not too obvious. No one is moving, waiting instead for the next words. He feels his food revolting in his stomach.

_Calvati Twelve, prepare for battle..._

A female sitting not far from him stands up to hushed cheers from the few closest to her, and jogs out of the room. The sheer strangeness of it hangs just out of reach over his head like a cloud, not quite raining down on him yet. Ryk stares at her back until she's out of sight, wondering detachedly if this might be both the first and time he sees her. The thought sits heavily, gravely in his mind, with a feeling he cannot quite put his finger on. He wonders if the others think about it too.

_Dogran Five, prepare for battle..._

An older looking man with graying hair stands up on the other side of the room. His allies are silent but nod at him and he nods back before striding out of the room under the dozens of eyes upon him, holding himself with the kind of genuine-looking confidence born from experience as opposed to cheap cockiness. Ryk holds his breath as he waits for the next name to be called out, realizing that only some of them – how many, exactly? A few? A dozen? More? – are being called to fight. He does not have to wait for long.

_Protan Nine, prepare for battle..._

His heart beats like a drum against his ribs, his muscles tense. A brief wave of relief washes over him as he recognizes the name called out as not his own, but it's only momentary. Anything could happen still. He looks around as a distraction, looking for the next person to stand up. Shock runs through him as he sees his sparring partner stand up, to the silence of those around him, the nameless feeling from a moment ago intensifying. Unlike the two before, his face is not unknown to him. And now he knows his name. Something pushes at his throat, trying to escape. He wonders if it's words bubbling up, not that he knows what they could possibly be. Maybe it's just the contents of his stomach. Whatever it is, he pushes it down with some effort.

_Mru'an Seven, prepare for battle. Vrihaana Nine, prepare for battle..._

People keep rising to their feet around him, to the quiet encouragement of those around them. His heart keeps on beating like it's trying to pound its way out of his chest, and he needs to remind himself to breathe. He keeps count of them as, one by one, they stride with purpose towards their fate. Six, seven, eight... the names keep being called out, and the tension mounts as everyone, Ryk realizes with a sick feeling, hopes their name will be called out. He hopes every name will be the last.

_Gaveedra Seven, prepare for battle._

Twelve, he counts. Twelve names, and after a few seconds of precious silence the blaring noise resumes around him, threatening to rupture his eardrums. He closes his eyes in relief, breathing in deeply and willing his heart to slow down.

Not tonight, he realizes. He's not fighting tonight. And he feels something akin to guilt as he realizes that his relief comes at the expense of others. Others who might not be coming back. He swallows heavily and forces himself to push the feeling away. The situation is beyond his control. And it's not like they don't want to fight. The thought feels wrong as soon as it pops up in his head.

His eyes closed, he almost misses the last contestant as he walks by. He only looks up when he hears someone call out from across the room, the words indistinguishable to him above the cacophony. A black-haired man making some hand gestures at the redhead about to leave the room. He vaguely recognizes the latter as the warrior from the cell across his own, if only because his bright hair and the star-shaped mark around his eye are so distinctive. Gaveedra Seven nods at the black-haired man, message received, and turns back to exit the canteen.

Some odd, unidentifiable feeling comes over him, but it's gone as suddenly as it comes, or maybe it blends in with the rest. It's hard to make any sense of them when his food is trying to crawl up his throat like the world's most disgusting slug.

He picks up his half-empty bowl and rises to his feet. He sets it down next to the small pile on the counter, and exits the room. It doesn't escape his notice that everyone else is staying, probably to watch the broadcast of the others beating the living daylights out of one another. That is something he can do without, and something he wishes he could avoid. He might not be able to escape the show, but at the very least he can lie down in his cell and close his eyes and try to tune it out.

So he does. He reaches his cell, without getting lost in the way for the first time. He keeps his eyes fixed on the ground all the way and closes them as soon as he lies down. The bright lights shine even through his eyelids, contributing to his mounting headache. He tries to tune out the noise, but it's a wasted effort. At least between the competing broadcasts it's impossible to make out most of it, and the few words that manage to stand out soon loose all meaning to his overloaded brain.

He curses in frustration after a few minutes, feeling like he might actually go crazy if this goes on for much longer. He takes his shirt off and quickly folds it up. If he cannot escape this, he can try to make it more bearable at the very least. He lifts his folded up shirt to his eyes, wraps it around his head like a blindfold, and tugs it over his ears. It doesn't do much to muffle the noise, but it does _something_ , and at least now it's mercifully dark inside his eyes save for the faint blobs of color that keep floating by. He can live with those. Hell, if they stay long enough he'll even consider naming them.

A small success, but it makes him feel slightly better.

It takes hours before the noises fade into white noise, but they do, eventually. And when they do, he is finally able of hearing his own thoughts once again. It's not much better. They drift to the empty cell across the hall, and he wonders with something close to regret if he'll have to get used to seeing it empty. Something aches in his chest at the thought. He blames it on the feeling of loneliness that follows his every step.

Eventually, he drifts off to sleep, the screens still on around him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The screens are off by the time Gaveedra makes it back to his cell. He's limping, but the injury to his thigh has stopped bleeding. It will be healed by the time he wakes up, just like the rest.

His hair is dripping from his recent shower, and his clothes are clean. His uniform is another matter and will have to be replaced, but it's hard to care with the adrenaline still coursing through his body and the exhilaration that comes from defeating a formidable opponent. The fight was long, arduous, and he can still feel the ache in his muscles that comes with over-exertion. He can still hear the Audience's chants echoing in his head. They make his blood rush faster through his veins.

Everyone else is already in their cells, and the blue field blinks into place behind him as soon as he enters his own. He looks down at his mat, but rejects the idea of lying down as soon as it crosses his mind. He's still riding the high of battle, of victory and the praise that comes with it, and he cannot stay still.

He considers working out to burn off some of the excess energy, and does so for a while. Takes his shirt off and does a hand stand, easily maintaining his balance. He flexes his arms and lowers himself until his nose brushes the ground, then pushes himself up seemingly with little effort. A battle of a different sort and against a less formidable kind of opponent, at first glance, but one that always wins in the end. Gaveedra might be strong, but gravity is relentless, and pulls him down with the same force long after his sore muscles start protesting the effort. But Gaveedra just repeats the motions intent on continuing until his arms give up on him, keeps on fighting a battle he knows he cannot win. It's what he was born to do.

He's deeply focused on his workout when he catches some movement out of the corner of his eye. _Rats again_ , he thinks for a split second, until he remembers the compound has been consistently rat-free for months. Coincidentally, it's been roughly as long since Laskarr Thirteen stopped complaining about needing extra protein in his diet to maintain his bulk. Still standing in his hands, he turns his head and to see Ryk One staring at him thoughtfully, his face illuminated by the faint blue glow of the field.

The metal collar glints around his neck, plainly visible. Gaveedra wonders if he forgot he was wearing it. It seems likely, considering it has not escaped Gaveedra's notice how carefully he's been trying to hide it since he got here. He goes back to his work out, uncaring of the eyes on him since the other does not seem interested in making conversation.

“What is the collar for?” his mouth asks before he can even think about posing the question. It's uncharacteristic of him to pry like this, but he finds for once he doesn't mind his curiosity overriding his common sense.

He doesn't need to look at the other to feel him tensing up, but can see it out of the corner of his eye anyway. Ryk One sits up straight, taken by surprise by the unexpected question. His hand rises up to his neck reflexively, but he does not make an attempt to hide it. It is obviously much too late for that.

He remains quiet, and Gaveedra would normally not care enough to press the issue. But now that he has breached this line of questioning he finds he wants to continue. He wants answers to the questions that have been roaming his mind for the last few days.

“I know what the collar does,” he adds in between push ups, and leaves it at that. The other doesn't need to know that he wore a similar one long ago.

This gets him a response from the smaller man.

“Do you?” he asks defiantly, and it's not an answer but at least now Gaveedra knows he has his attention.

“You are right to hide it,” he says, trying to get some reaction. “Many here would not hesitate to take advantage of your weakened state.”

He glances at him briefly, but the other man's face is impassive. If he's feeling anything, he hides it well. Possibly his one saving grace.

“What's stopping them?” he asks eventually, his words carefully measured. “They already think I'm weak.”

It is impossible for Gaveedra to infer more from his words than what they plainly state. _Think_ , he said, but not _know_. Not an admission of his weakness, but not a rebuttal either. He poses a good question, though, and Gaveedra thinks about it for a moment, taking his time to come to a conclusion.

“They don't know for sure. They might just be waiting for someone to make the first move,” he admits, but he knows it's more than that. He continues, knowing he'll have to give some more before he gets something worthwhile in return. “They say you killed a whitecoat.”

He lets the words hang in the air for a moment, expectantly, but it doesn't look like he's gonna get any verbal confirmation and he's not about to ask explicitly. He's not sure he needs to.

“Brakk Three is furious at you.”

“So I keep hearing,” Ryk One says, more lightly than Gaveedra was expecting him to. It almost makes him laugh.

“But he has yet to seek out another fight with you. It makes people wonder,” he says, putting all his weight into one hand and doing a push up while he holds the other behind his back. “Your design is flawed. Your physique is not adequate for combat. Yet you are here. That very fact makes the others uncertain,” he says, careful to speak in the third person.

Ryk One must be smarter than he looks, because he picks up on this fact.

“Not you, though?” he asks tonelessly, staring at Gaveedra as he continues with the one-handed push ups.

“They haven't noticed what I have yet,” he says with a small degree of pride. “I saw the collar on the first day,” he adds, fighting against the urge to show off and losing.

“You must be very observant,” not a compliment or an accusation, just a simply-stated fact. Gaveedra doesn't bother commenting on it, intent on furthering the conversation.

“They know there has to be more to you than meets the eye. If they knew your powers are being suppressed – if they knew how vulnerable you are right now – some might try to cancel you,” he says casually. It is a fact, and there is no point tip-toeing around the issue. He hopes the slight jab is enough to get the other to be more forthcoming. He has no such luck. “The only thing keeping you alive right now is the fact you killed that whitecoat, and that they don't know how you did it,” he adds, and falls into silence, waiting for the other to break.

The silence stretches on, and Gaveedra assumes the conversation is over. It was worth a try. He switches from his right arm to the left, giving his protesting muscles a short break. But after a while, Ryk One surprises him by speaking up.

“What about you? Will you try to... _cancel_ me while I have _this_ on?” he asks, and Gaveedra sees him reach up to tug at the device. He knows the other is just trying to divert his attention, but the question makes him scoff in disgust.

“There is no honor in killing a weakened enemy,” he says, frowning as he finally lowers his feet to the ground. The mere thought is insulting to him, and he has no qualms about making it obvious. “And I reserve my strength for the arena, as it should be. I fight for the Audience, and for Mojo. No one else.”

He wonders if maybe he's giving more than he's getting in return, but he finds it hard to stop. He looks long and hard at the other, and sees the confusion in his face. He wonders if honor is really such a foreign concept to him, or if he's surprised by the admission that Gaveedra won't try to kill him in his sleep. Then again, it's probably smart of him to assume not everyone here is as honorable.

“So what _can_ you do?” he asks directly, tired of skirting around the topic and hoping the conversation has loosened the other's tongue. The need to know itches at him. “What abilities are you hiding?” he clarifies at the other's blank face. His real question remains unspoken. _Why are you here, and why are you not dead yet?_

But the other remains stone-faced, mouth clamped shut.

“They say they're experimenting with new technologies,” he prompts, looking carefully at Ryk's face for anything that might reveal the answer to him. “Which doesn't explain why they made you so small, or why they missed... everything else,” he finishes with as much subtlety as he can manage. Maybe if he's vague enough the other will let something new slip.

But Ryk remains infuriatingly obtuse.

“I don't know what you mean,” is all he says. Maybe it's time for a more direct approach.

“People have noticed,” he says, looking pointedly at the slowly-healing gash on his cheek and the bruises on his chest. “You don't heal as fast as you should. As we do. Is that also by design?” he prods, twisting the knife in the proverbial wound, and it seems that is finally enough. The shock on the smaller man's face is tremendously gratifying and tells him all he needs to know. He grins, and waits. His patience is rewarded.

“You want to know how I did it?” he asks slowly, his tone low but carrying easily across the silent hallway. “How I killed that creature?”

“The whitecoat, you mean?” Gaveedra asks, sitting down on his mat and staring Ryk down. He tries to feign disinterest, but the other is having none of it. He waits patiently for his answer, until Gaveedra breaks. “Tell me,” he says, masking his interest behind an even tone. He wants to hear all the details from the very source. He wants his suspicions confirmed.

The other looks up from his hands, looking directly into his eyes as he opens his mouth. His eyes are alight with fire.

“It is not much of a story. I lunged at it,” he says, tongue slipping out to wet his lips. “Just... stretched my hand out and wrapped it around its face...” he pauses, making sure he has Gaveedra's attention. “And before it could even move, I blew its brains up. You should've seen it,” he smiles, the blue light reflecting off his white teeth. “They were all over the place,” he says, nostrils flaring as he inhales, and grins like the memory brings him great joy. Gaveedra's breath catches in his throat.

“How?” he asks, looking down at the man's hands and wondering if they could have the strength to crush an enemy's skull just like that.

“I didn't even need to crush its head,” he says, as if reading his thoughts, “just... release some energy, push it gently with just a thought... charged up his brains and made them explode with such strength they cracked its skull open. There was blood and shards of bone spraying everywhere. There was nothing left of its head. It was very satisfying,” he says, and the look in his eyes makes Gaveedra almost shiver.

The picture painted in his head is certainly a vivid one. It arouses something in him that he rarely feels outside of battle, and his fingers itch to wrap themselves around his swords' handles. His pulse pounds deafeningly loud in his ears, in harsh contrast to the heavy silence that has fallen between them.

Ryk One is the first to break it.

“I haven't had the chance to experiment,” he says, the words flowing easily and unprompted now, like a dam has broken, and his voice too feels loud in the silence despite being barely more than a whisper. “But I'm pretty sure I can do it from a distance, too. And as soon as they get this fucking thing off me, I'm gonna find out exactly what I can do.”

Gaveedra frowns at the unfamiliar word, but dismisses it quickly, storing it away for later consideration, in favor of a more interesting thought.

“You don't know the extent of your powers,” he states in confusion. The idea is alien to him, but there is no mistaking the meaning of Ryk One's words. Was the knowledge not programmed into him? Just like he was not given a healing factor? Or is he merely bluffing about what he thinks his powers can do?

Ryk One looks at him warily, as if realizing his mistake. But it's far too late to take his words back.

“Not all of it,” he admits, narrowing his eyes at him as if considering exactly how much he should say. “I told you. I haven't had the time to test them out yet. But I know enough.”

And this... this is perhaps much more interesting that what Gaveedra was setting out to find in the first place.

He stares the other man down, matching his intense stare easily with his own, as the gears turn in his head. The other man looks like he has something to say, another question to ask, but he remains silent. Gaveedra is content to let him do as he pleases. He got what he wanted, and more.

He lies down and turns around, presenting his back to the other man in a show of condescension.

Sleeps comes easily to him.


	5. Ignorant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to Tangerine for betaing this chapter :D

 

Sleep does not come easily to Ryk One that night.

A cold weight sits heavily in his stomach after the conversation with the red-haired man. He toys with the collar around his neck for an hour as he thinks about what he just learned. It is not much, and what he did learn is not good. If anything, it at least confirms his suspicions that hiding his vulnerability might be the only thing keeping him safe. For now. It gives him a lot to think about.

He wonders how long he'll be able to keep this up, if someone has already figured out his secret. He'll have to be more careful from now on. Would the redhead keep his secret for him? It seems highly unlikely, not when he has seemingly nothing to gain from it. He claimed his honor impeded him from taking advantage of Ryk's depowered state, and he seemed genuinely disgusted by the thought, but would that honor extend to keeping others from doing so? Ryk wouldn't bet his lunch on it.

And as if that wasn't bad enough on its own, there was more. Of course there was. It hadn't taken him long to notice that his own wounds seemed to last far longer than any others. Training could get very violent, and he'd watched in silent horror as blood was spilled frequently and, at times, gratuitously during training hours. And yet no one seemed to carry these wounds on them for long. He'd caught himself staring at a female during mealtime on his second day, fascinated by the way the skin of her forehead seemed to stitch itself together before his eyes, his hand itching to rub at the scab on his cheek from his brief confrontation with the oaf. The skin was still red around it, and he'd accidentally reopened it by managing to get himself thrown face-first onto the ground by his four-armed sparring partner. It was evident, he thought with a sinking feeling, that he was the only one carrying around his injuries for as long as he was. Of course people were bound to notice.

But it was one thing to know this logically, and another one entirely to have his fears confirmed by another. Hearing it from his neighbor – what was his name? Something with a  _ G... Ganedra _ ? _ Gaaverda _ ? – had felt like being bashed in the face with a sack full of bricks. It had sent him into a panic. It was the only explanation – more like an excuse, in all honesty – for the stupidity he committed straight afterwards.

It had seemed like the best course of action, but that was usually the case with mistakes. He'd thought he could intimidate the other by using what he knew to be the only weapon in his arsenal, but it had backfired on him horribly. Spitting the words out, even as calmly as he forced himself to, made the bile rise to the back of his throat. He'd brought forward in as gory detail as he could manage what it had felt like to blow up that creature's head and made it sound like he enjoyed it. He'd tried to scare the other off with the story of what he could do and the fake suggestion of what he  _ would _ do if given the chance. It failed to have the desired effect. Of all the things the crazy bastard could have looked – instead of fearful, wary, or cowed – it was  _ excited _ .

Unsettled by the unexpected reaction, he overdid it. He gave away too much and admitted his ignorance of what his powers could do. It hadn't immediately seemed like an error, but it became apparent when he saw the other's confused reaction. And then his reply.

_ You don't know the extent of your powers _ . Stated like the idea itself was so strange it was inconceivable. It keeps floating in circles in his head and makes the hollow in him where he could feel his powers up to a few days ago ache. It makes him feel wrong, incomplete, to know that a part of him has been stripped away like it was nothing, even if it was a part of him he barely understood. He'd give up an arm to have it back.

His sleep is restless and plagued with dreams he cannot remember by the time he wakes up but that nevertheless manage to make him feel sick. The redhead's cell is already empty by the time he opens his eyes, but the conversation they had last night is at the forefront of his mind from the second he gains consciousness.

It stays in his mind, buzzing around like an annoying insect, as he eats. He has to make a conscious effort not to fiddle with his hair or the collar of his shirt. He reminds himself the device around his neck is well-hidden, that the less attention he draws to it the better, but it's a hard thing to do when his physical integrity might depend on it. He has come up with an eating technique that makes the food almost completely bypass his tongue. It involves practically shoving the spoon down his own throat. It is worth it.

He picks up a clean training uniform and heads to the locker room to change. He has learned that getting there early, before everyone is done with breakfast, is the easiest way to avoid being seen. The room is not empty though – it never is – so he keeps his back to the rest of the room as he removes his shirt and replaces it with the uniform. Doing so has made him feel uneasy from the first day, exposed, but it's even worse now after learning what he has. He keeps his movements slow, not giving away his nerves, but keeps his senses on alert while he changes. By the time he's done, the changing room is filling in, so he takes his leave.

Training Hall 2 is still empty by the time he arrives, but won't be for long. He starts running laps around it, determined to make the most of his solitude while it lasts. He has found it is his favorite part of training, as it is the one that doesn't involve having the shit beat out of him, and, as such, he tries to prolong it for as long as he can. He keeps his pace moderate, focusing on his breathing and the not entirely unpleasant ache it brings to his muscles. He ignores everyone else as the hall starts filling up, as others join him in running laps, as they overtake him with their longer legs and faster rhythm. He tunes everything out.

He keeps running long after everyone else, until his lungs are close to bursting and his legs start rebelling on him, refusing to get him any farther. Only then does he stop, slowing down to a walk, willing his legs to carry him those few extra steps to a desolate corner of the room before slumping down on the floor.

Training is a nightmare, but the permanent ache that has taken residence in his bones and muscles has started to subside as his body acclimates to it. Stretching helps, so he spends as long as he dares on it, reveling in the comforting ache, pushing his body farther, just another inch, and then maybe another one. The motions seem deeply ingrained in some part of his brain, his body knowledgeable of what he's supposed to do to target each specific muscle group. He reaches for his feet and wraps his hands around the soles of his shoes, uses that as leverage to pull his torso towards his legs. Feels the stretch on his back. He wonders if this is the way he should feel about his powers. If he should just  _ know _ how they work and what they can do. Like he knows how to talk or even how to move. Like he just knows he should not be in this place, and the sooner he finds a way out, the better. Would he know what to do with it, if he had it at his disposal right now? The energy coursing under his skin and vibrating in his bones, that felt so natural to him he didn't even notice it was there until it was taken from him?

He's broken out of his thoughts as a wooden stick is shoved right in front of his face. It grazes his nose. He looks at it cross-eyed for a moment before turning his head, following the grain of the wood up to the hand holding it out. Then up the arm to the face of his sparring partner staring down at him impatiently. To say Ryk is surprised to see him would be an understatement, but the feeling of relief in his chest is undeniable. It lasts only as long as it takes him to realize that his solo training time is over.

“What is this?” he asks with a raised eyebrow, purely rhetorical. That part seems lost on the four-armed behemoth, who looks at him like he has suffered brain damage. The fact that this is not entirely unreasonable is something Ryk chooses to ignore for now.

“You need the reach,” he says gruffly, and the sound of his voice startles Ryk. He realizes those are the first four words he's ever heard him speak.

He still doesn't make a move to take the proffered weapon, hands still gripping his feet. His face probably shows every bit of how confused he is. Protan Nine holds it closer with an unamused grunt, then drops it unceremoniously on his arms when he fails to move.

Ryk finally moves to pick it up, gripping it with both hands. It feels foreign in his palms, and surprisingly light. It's probably about as long as he is tall, and he has no idea what to do with it.

“I don't know how to use this,” he admits before even thinking if it's a good idea. But he feels safe in the thought that it seems unlikely the other will be spreading this tidbit of information around, considering his communication skills seem rather limited. Besides, it's going to become obvious in a minute anyway.

Protan Nine's supraorbital ridges, if possible, seem to get more pronounced.

“Then learn,” is all he grunts, before stepping back and assuming an offensive stance.

And learn he does.

 

* * *

 

 

“That was a good fight last night,” says Ku'ux, stepping into the showers right next to him. “Highly entertaining.”

Gaveedra hums his thanks for the compliment, lathering the soap in his long hair. The fight had been good. Better than good. A real challenge and an exhilarating experience. The kind that lit his blood on fire and set sparks running down his spine and the hairs at the back of his neck on end. The kind that made having to terminate his opponent seem like a shame, for they gave as good as they got.

And while he'd normally indulge in the praise and hard-earned bragging rights, this time the feeling of victory seemed to lack its usual luster.

“You've been holding out on me. You need to teach me that move you made towards the end later,” Ku'ux continues, moving his head under the spray and rubbing his hands vigorously over his face. “I promise I'll use it to break Jella's arm if we ever fight.”

“Jella is an inferior fighter,” Gaveedra informs him with the tone of someone who has heard similar promises before. “You should stop concerning yourself with them.”

“But it would be a very entertaining fight,” the other argues.

“No, it would be a very short one,” he counters, ending the discussion and moving his head under the spray to rinse his hair. The cold water has never bothered him, but he's quick about it. Inefficiency bothers him. Head still under the spray, water washing away the last of the suds, he reaches for the bar of soap to wash his body.

“So, do you want to tell me why the runner is looking at you like that?”

The sudden change of topic makes him pause and turn his head before he can think better about it. It's hard to find him in between the sea of naked bodies. He's small and looking like he's trying his best at blending in with the shower wall, but once Gaveedra's eyes meet his, it's hard to look away.

Odd.

Or maybe not so much. He ignores it as he forces his attention back to washing himself, running his hands over his arms and chest. His ally is a bit harder to ignore.

“You talked to him, didn't you?” he prods. “Are you not going to tell me what it was about?”

Gaveedra turns the question over in his head, considering whether he wants to share his newly-gained knowledge. “Possibly,” he decides and leaves it at that, hoping that the conversation is over.

No such luck.

“You and I both know that means yes,” Ku'ux continues, unrelenting. “That thing around his neck... is that the same thing you had to wear during your first season?”

Gaveedra takes a quick look around, hoping no one is listening in on their conversation. But everyone else seems uninterested or maybe unable to hear them over the sound of the running water. Gaveedra nods imperceptibly.

Ku'ux makes a thoughtful noise. “What else did you find out?” he questions, voice lowering to a whisper. “Did he do it?”

Gaveedra doesn't need to ask to know what he's referring to. The conversation is still fresh in his mind. He thinks back to the smirk on the smaller man's lips as he described in detail what he'd done. The memory of it accelerates his pulse and makes his skin warmer. The way the other's eyes shone with something unnameable, an intensity that Gaveedra has only felt in the heat of battle, that he's seen reflected in many others' eyes in the moments before delivering the killing blow.

“He claims to have done it,” he says finally, licking his lips. There is no way to know the truth, but he's convinced enough. The alternative would not only be sorely disappointing, but it would leave other questions unanswered. And then there's the matter of the man's ignorance in respect to his powers, but that's another matter altogether.

His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Ku'ux picks up on them.

“What else did he say?” Ku'ux asks excitedly, forgetting to keep his voice down for a moment.

Gaveedra weights out the pros and cons of divulging what he knows, but if he's honest with himself, he'd made up his mind before this conversation began. Part of him wants to share it, is too intrigued to keep it all to himself. Ku'ux has been known to be as intelligent as he is obnoxious on occasion, and Gaveedra could do with hearing his thoughts on the matter.

He turns his head to address his companion, but pauses as he catches a glimpse of movement over his shoulder.

“I'll tell you later,” he says to Ku'ux's indignant complaints. He looks instead at Ryk One, who is standing there expectantly with an odd expression on his face and looking at Ku'ux with mistrust. “What do you want?”

“I need to talk to you.” The response is immediate, his tone stony where his face is not. Ku'ux turns startled to look at him. Serves him right for not being aware of his surroundings, Gaveedra thinks. Or maybe the runner is just sneakier than Gaveedra gives him credit for.

He just stares him down for a moment, assessing him, running his eyes slowly up and down his body. To his credit the smaller man appears unintimidated.

“I am busy,” he declares finally, even though he is done with his shower. He is not in the mood for humoring anyone right at the moment.

Ryk One seems determined not to give him a choice, however, infuriatingly enough. “It's important. I'll wait for you outside.”

And without waiting for a reply, he walks away.

“What was that all about?”

Gaveedra thinks he might have an idea, and he says so. “I will tell you later,” he adds at Ku'ux's expectant face, leaving him there as he goes to get dressed.

True to his word, Ryk One is waiting for him in the hallway. Dressed, metallic collar hidden once more from curious eyes, and looking like he has swallowed something unpleasant.

“Is there somewhere private we can talk?” he asks as soon as he sees Gaveedra.

Gaveedra considers this for a moment, wondering why he's even bothering humoring the shorter man. Normally he'd ask him to wait until the TVs are turned on, so their conversation could be hidden by the loud programming, but he's impatient. He nods his head down the hall to their left, silently indicating the other man should follow him, and leads the way.

The armory is locked, but that has never stopped him before. He focuses on precision as opposed to power, channeling a small amount of energy through his fingers as he touches them to the electronic lock on the side of the door, small enough that he barely feels the toll on his body but enough to cause a short circuit. It doesn't take a lot, but it took him ages to achieve this level of control over his powers. It is something he takes pride in, even if he never gets to show it off.

The doors slide easily when he pushes them open. He steps in and waits impatiently for the other to follow.

“Are we even supposed to be here?” Ryk One looks around them, eyes lingering on a set of vicious looking axes mounted on the wall to his left. He looks back at Gaveedra and makes a face at his deadpan expression. “Right, stupid question.”

“Are you going to tell me why you needed to talk to me in private?” Gaveedra asks, shutting the door behind him. He does not miss the way Ryk One tenses at that and suppresses the urge to do something as childish as roll his eyes. “Or will you continue wasting my time?”

Ryk One hesitates, but he must see the impatience in him because he hurries to speak before Gaveedra can turn to leave.

“Did you tell your friend?” he asks, his posture defensive. His scans Gaveedra's face like he's trying to read the truth in his eyes, in the tension of his muscles. “I know you were talking about me. Did you tell him?”

“Ku'ux Six is my ally, not my friend,” he starts, and he's interrupted before he can continue.

“ _ Whatever _ . Did you tell him?” Ryk pressures, impatient to get to the answer he's searching for. “What about others?”

“What I do with the knowledge I acquired is no one's business but my own.”

The expletive that escapes the other's lips is not one he has ever heard before.

“It  _ is _ my business,” he argues, anger glinting in his eyes along with something else. “You better keep it to yourself,  _ or else.. _ .” he lets the word hang in the air, and Gaveedra waits expectantly. The silence stretches on for uncomfortable seconds before he realizes the other has no intention of finishing the sentence.

“Is that supposed to be a threat?” he asks, genuinely perplexed. He tilts his head to the side. “If so, you are extremely bad at them. Threats are most effective when accompanied by the promise of bodily harm.”

“That's not what I...” Ryk makes a pained expression and pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Forget that. Look, you said your honor prevented you from fighting me while I'm wearing this.” He hooks a finger in the metal collar and tugs at it, scowling as he does. “I just want to know if it also prevents you from telling others who might not share your... convictions.” He says the last word like it's not quite the one he was looking for but the best one he could find.

Gaveedra raises an unimpressed eyebrow. Is this the reason he's being disturbed and kept from his food and prime time programming?

“Not particularly. It is not my duty to protect you, nor is it to safeguard other people's honor either. Do not interrupt me again, or I will cut your tongue off,” he adds with a glare, cutting the other off before he can utter a word, his mouth hanging open. “But I am also not interested in spreading around  _ gossip _ . It is beneath me. I will not promise to protect your secret, but I will also not go out of my way to tell everyone about it. Will that be all?”

Ryk One shuts his mouth and glares at him. His eyes narrow and Gaveedra can practically see him turning over his words in his head, looking at them from different angles and examining each one of them critically. His own face remain impassive even as those eyes scrutinize his own, knowing that it makes absolutely no difference to him whether Ryk One believes him or not.

Ryk One opens his mouth, looking for all intents and purposes like he's about to protest, but then closes it as he thinks better about it. He does not look happy with Gaveedra's answer, but it must be obvious to him that starting an argument will not make things any better for him.

“Yeah,” he says finally, but his shoulders remain tense, “that's all I wanted to know...”

That is all Gaveedra needs to consider the conversation over. He turns around and heads towards the door, but he is stopped once more before he can leave when Ryk One appears to change his mind and decide that he is not done wasting Gaveedra's time.

“Wait!” he exclaims a bit too loudly, then corrects for the tone of his voice. “There's something else...”

“What?” Gaveedra snaps, turning his head to glare at him.

Ryk One hesitates, but then speaks hurriedly when he realizes he's pushing at the limits of Gaveedra's patience.

“Last night... when I told you I wasn't sure what my powers can do... you seemed confused,” he says. His hands are fisted at his side, like he's making a conscious effort not to fidget with them. “Why?”

This gives Gaveedra pause, and he tries not to let it show that maybe he's a little bit impressed that Ryk One is finally asking the right questions. Should he even dignify the other's question with an answer? And if so, how much should he tell?

Or, more importantly, how much can he get the other to give up in return?

He measures his words carefully when he finally speaks, but it's not the answer Ryk One is looking for.

“How much do you know?” he asks instead, scrutinizing the other's face in search for something, anything, that might tell him what Ryk One will undoubtedly not say with words.

All he sees is confusion in the man's furrowing of his brow.

“What do you mean by that?”

It takes inhuman effort for Gaveedra to bite back a sigh of exasperation.

“When you were born, when you first woke up in the tank,” he explains. “How much did you know? About yourself? About this place and what you're doing here?”

Part of him was expecting Ryk One's silence, the shutting off of his expression, but it does not make him any less surprised to receive them as the only response to his question. It is as close as it gets to having his thoughts confirmed.

“If my suspicions are correct, and I think they are, judging by your expression,” he says, feeling generous enough to share his thoughts, “I think the whitecoats might have forgotten to give you more than just a healing factor.”

It would be a lie to say Gaveedra has not noticed Ryk One's skin tone, darker and warmer than his own and probably designed to appeal to the Audience's ever-shifting preferences. At the moment, however, his face looks determined to blend in with the white walls behind him as all blood drains from it.

“What do you mean?” Ryk One asks hoarsely. His voice does not shake, but he looks just like he did on the first day.  _ Small, weak _ ... Gaveedra's own voice echoes in his head.

“I mean that you really  _ are _ as lost as you look, are you not?” he says, and almost feels bad for it. He might, if he were not feeling so smug with himself for having figured out this piece of the puzzle. “You know nothing about this place. You are ignorant about your purpose. You do not even know how to fight properly, or so people are saying. They gave you nothing but the most basic programming.”

He's about to say more, to confess, maybe, to the cruelty of their masters to design such a creature whose only purpose is to die. Not a warrior, capable of fighting for his life, but prey. Small and weak and almost completely ignorant of the extent of the one skill that might save his life. He's about to say more, but is interrupted  by the walls around them blinking to life, bathing them in a red light.

_ All contenders, prepare for battle. I repeat: all contenders, prepare for battle. _

The speakers blare loudly, but it does not faze him. Ryk One on the other hand flinches, taking a small step back and looking extremely uncomfortable.

_ Karr Seventeen, prepare for battle. _

Gaveedra listens intently, having completely forgotten about the conversation at hand. It is irrelevant now. All that matters is the voice announcing tonight's contenders and the spark of excitement it lights up in his chest.

_ Brakk Three, prepare for battle. _

_ Eeranus Fifteen, prepare for battle. _

He counts the names one by one as they are announced, disappointed and knowing that with each name called out that's not his own, his chances of being called decrease.

_ Khaval Eleven, prepare for battle. Khaval Twelve, prepare for battle. _

It is greedy of him to wish for another battle so soon after the last, but he cannot help it. This is literally what he was born for. It is the one thing that gives his life purpose.

Eight, nine, ten, he counts, and his shoulders tense. He should probably give up on the idea of fighting tonight. He looks at Ryk One, and his shoulders seem to relax in relief instead as the chances of his name being called out keep dropping down to almost nothing. Gaveedra frowns. He supposes he should understand it rationally, given the situation the smaller man finds himself in, but the idea is still so completely, inextricably alien to him that he struggles with comprehending it.

Whether he understands it or not is unimportant. He is so carelessly lost in his thoughts, in his examination of the other man's character, that he almost misses the next name being called out.

_ Ryk One, prepare for battle. _

To say that the other man looks shocked would be an understatement. His eyes open wide and Gaveedra can see the whites of them all around his brown irises. And, in them, an emotion he has seen only a handful of times in his life, always staring up at him from fallen opponents in the instants before his blade meets their necks. He looks, for lack of a better comparison, like a man that knows his death is inescapable. Like a man that knows he has already been defeated.

_ Weak _ , the word echoes once more in his head, and it annoys him to no end. If he is so certain he is going to die, at the very least he should face it with courage. Better to die screaming, scratching and clawing and biting until his last moments, than to give up and die like a coward. There is no honor in that, and it makes him want to punch some sense into the other man.

His annoyance is immediately forgotten as the last name is called out.

_ Gaveedra Seven, prepare for battle. _

To say he is flooded with excitement does not accurately describe the swelling in his chest. He keeps it all inside, bottled up to be put to better use later in the night, when he walks out into the arena to the cheers of the Audience. Then he'll let it all out.

Now, it's time to get moving. The other man seems frozen in place, and Gaveedra realizes suddenly he probably has no idea where they are supposed to go.

That can be fixed easily.

“Follow me, runner,” he says, the nickname falling unbidden from his lips. “It's almost show time.”

 


	6. Rictor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks once again to Tangerine for betaing this chapter :) Comments and kudos are very much appreciated!

“Hurry, we don't have long.”

The next half hour goes by in a blur. He's dragged impatiently down a series of hallways, up a flight of stairs. The redhead's hand closed firmly around his wrist as soon as he realized Ryk was not moving on his own. He looks dazedly around for a way out, for an escape route, but everything happens too quickly, and the grip on his arm is solid like a shackle. He wants to protest, but he can barely keep up with the taller man’s longer strides as it is. He knows the other man would probably just drag him across the floor if he were to lose his footing.

He thought... he had counted on having more time. More than just a few days, at least, to come up with a plan. But his time is up, and it looks like if he doesn't come up with something on the spot there won't be any need for one anymore.

“You can let go of me now,” he says, but Gaveedra just throws a quick glance at him over his shoulder and does not loosen his hold. He wonders if it really is that obvious that he's about to bolt.

He's dragged into a brightly-lit room, and there are others there already. He hides behind Gaveedra as he spots Brakk Three with his back to them and strapping armor to his wrists the circumference of Ryk's thighs. Gaveedra finally releases him, and he stands there paralyzed for a moment too long. His head turns towards the doors they just stepped through just as they slide closed, tall guards standing dutifully to either side of them.

“Is this the new one?” He's broken out of his thoughts as cold, long fingers wrap around his jaw and turn his head to the side. His eyes instinctively shoot up, expecting someone much taller than him, but they encounter nothing but empty space. Instead, he finds someone staring at him at his eye level, their face much too close for comfort. “We don't have a lot to work with, do we?”

“What?” he asks, but he's ignored. It's not until someone else steps into view that he realizes the question was not aimed at him.

“I'll work on its hair. You go pick its clothes,” the second person, a woman, says. “There has to be _something_ in its size.”

And with that he's dragged off once more, too confused to protest.

He's sat on a chair, and he looks around at the other warriors preparing for tonight's battle. Gaveedra sits by himself in a corner, silently braiding his hair and ignoring everyone else around him. Others, like Brakk, are donning armor. One man Ryk has never seen before meticulously sharpens his weapon.

His hair is tugged on painfully from behind, his head tilted to the side at an awkward angle. He curses and tries to pull his head back, but the grip is too firm.

“You better sit still,” the woman says warningly. “We don't have the time for this.”

A buzzing sound is all the warning he gets before strands of his hair are falling onto his face and sliding down to the floor.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Half an hour later, and he's sitting in a cell all by himself. It is similar to the one he sleeps in: the blue incorporeal screen at his back and a pair of sliding doors on the opposite side, but no mattress on the floor. Screens all around him, showing twenty programs at once, bath him in a flickering rainbow and drown out the muffled sounds he can hear from beyond the doors.

He fights against the panic, against the feeling of suffocation that threatens to constrict his chest. No matter how fast or deep he breathes in, it feels like his lungs cannot get enough. But he forces himself to slow down, knowledgeable enough at least to recognize the light-headed feeling in his head for what it is, even if he knows little else. He closes his eyes and focuses on counting, timing his breathing, holding it in his lungs for a few counts before exhaling, and then repeating.

He eyes the blue field at length, as if looking for answers beyond the monochromatic sheen or maybe willing it to flicker off. He knows what it does. He'd tested it out carefully days ago, and he's not stupid enough to consider it a viable escape route. The singed hairs on his forearm are enough of a reminder. He swallows through the giant knot in his throat, suddenly uncomfortably aware of the collar around his neck. His hand reaches up instinctively to grab his hair, a nervous tick he's developed in the few days he's been awake, but finds nothing. The sides of his head have been shaved down to short bristles, the remaining hair on top tied back to keep it out of his face. It makes him feel naked. Vulnerable. It makes rage boil deep in his gut, and suddenly he wants to punch something. Hard.

The wait is endless, and part of him wishes they would just call him out to fight and get it over with. Would it be a quick death? He hopes so, though he wouldn't bet on it. At least it has to be preferable to going slowly insane as he waits. He tries to ignore the images force-fed to him, but it's harder than usual. A scream of pain stands out from the noise, his eyes drawn to a screen right as blood splatters on it, and he cannot pull them away. The cheers of the Audience are deafening as the victorious fighter stands on her own in the middle of the arena, her figure tinted in red as she raises a triumphant fist to the air.

He grips the staff in his hands tightly. It is the one weapon given to him, not even allowed the meager privilege of choice. He doesn't know whether to be grateful or pissed off. It won't be of much use against a blade, but it is the first weapon he has ever held and that brings a tiny degree of comfort. He's incompetent with it at best, but he'd be even more useless with a sword. Not that it makes a difference either way.

“Fuck!”

He's worse than screwed. He's heading less to a fight and more to an execution. He'll be lucky to last five minutes, and he knows it. Life is shit, and there seems to be no escape from it, but a part of him urges him to hold on when giving up seems so much easier. What is the point in fighting anyway? What's the point of surviving a fight, if the cycle will just keep repeating itself? It seems stupid, but the thought of making it out of this prison drives him on. What is even out there? Is it better than in here, or does the nightmare go on beyond these walls? He cannot imagine a world worse than this one, though, and his instinct all but keeps yelling at him that he does not belong in here.

As long as the wait seems, the moment he is dreading comes way too soon. The doors slide open, and he stares down the dark corridor at the light at the end of it. He stands up warily, the staff held defensively with both hands in front of him. So this is it, then? He considers staying in this cell, just waiting this out. Would that count as giving up? But as soon as the thought enters his mind, a warning shock from the collar runs painfully down his body, starting at the nape of his neck and extending down his limbs all the way to his fingers and toes.

“Motherfucker!” he curses, his knees trembling and threatening to give out under his weight. “ _Hijo de la gran -_!”

A second shock runs through him as he stalls, making him drop the staff.

“I got it!” he yells, knowing he's being observed, muttering obscenities under his breath. He leans down to pick up his fallen weapon and walks down the corridor as his heart tries to crawl its way up his throat.

The light is blinding as he steps out into the arena, and he blinks and squints as he tries to get used to it. The first thing he sees are the tall walls towering around him, surrounding the arena, followed quickly by the writhing masses beyond them. Thousands of bodies and faces and waving arms, each one too far away to distinguish individually. All of them, he knows, are focusing their attention on him and yelling wildly. Cheering, booing, screaming for blood.

He turns around slowly, eyes fixed on the giant screens stationed around the arena.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to welcome you to the last fight and main event of this evening!” a voice booms out above the cacophony, its sound as pleasant as nails raking down a blackboard. The cheers roar even louder, defying Ryk's expectations. “And we have a very exciting surprise for you tonight: a new contender!”

Ryk startles as he suddenly finds his confused face reflected back at him twenty times over, wide eyed and pale, from every screen in the arena. He takes a step back as he peers around, looking for the cameras, and he finds one floating around above his right shoulder, getting uncomfortably close as it aims for a close up. He is gripped by a completely rational bout of anger, annoyed at the blinking red light above the lens. All these people, who probably queued up for front row seats to his execution. Every single one of them here for the pleasure of seeing him and others fight for their lives. Because of them, he is here.

“Everyone please give a warm welcome to Rictor! Do not be deceived by his looks. He might be small, but he's bound to surprise us all tonight! He is certainly one to watch out for!”

The Audience cheers again, and something in Ryk snaps. He pulls his head back for a moment and then spits out, aiming for the camera and watching in satisfaction as it hits the lens. The camera flies back and away, as if offended by his behavior, but the Audience only laughs and cheers harder.

“And he is feisty! That is exactly the kind of spirit we like seeing here, in Mojo V's Slaughter Games!”

Ryk turns back around and scans his eyes over the arena. The place is huge and completely empty, his opponent yet to be called out. The walls are too high to climb, and the only doors, lining their whole circumference, are closed and most likely all lead to cells like the one he just stepped out of. As if on cue, the pair of doors diametrically opposed to his own slide open.

“And facing Rictor tonight is someone who needs no introduction. One of the strongest fighters we have produced, and one of my personal favorites! Put your hands together for Shatterstar!”

The cheering gets louder, but Ryk is too focused to notice. His eyes are fixed on the door at the other end of the arena. He wants to crawl back to the wall and merge with it, but he knows cornering himself is a bad idea, so he takes a couple of steps forward in preparation.

Not that anything could prepare him for the shock of bright orange hair as Gaveedra steps out into the arena.

“Shit.”

Of all the people he could've been paired against, it had to be the one he'd traded more than a few words with. He'd almost take Brakk Three over him.

If Gaveedra looks surprised to see him, he hides it well. It seems more likely that he's been paying attention to the other fights as he waits for his own, though. Like Ryk should've been doing. In contrast to the overwhelming panic threatening to crush Ryk, he seems completely calm,, and it dawns on him suddenly that this is someone who has fought and killed countless others. And he's about to become nothing more than another notch on his scoreboard.

“You have all waited long enough for this already, my friends, but that wait is over!” the grating voice pauses dramatically, and for the first time the Audience quiets down in anticipation. Shatterstar takes a defensive stance, hands gripping the handles of his swords and sliding them out of their scabbards in one fluid motion. “Let this fight begin!”

As Ryk takes a half-step back and brings the staff up in what is probably a futile attempt at defending himself from blades that look sharp enough to easily cut him in half, two things happen in quick succession. The first is Gaveedra charging at him as soon as the official start to the fight is given, faster than looks humanly possible and closing in on him quickly, blades at his side glinting sharply under the glare of the spotlights. The second is far more subtle, a soft _click_ from somewhere in the vicinity of his ears that Ryk would've missed if not for the blanket of silence draped over them.

A shock wave runs through the arena, with Ryk at its center, lifting a layer of dust and making Gaveedra stumble back, looking as surprised as Ryk feels. Ryk's mouth hangs slightly open as he breathes in deeply, a sudden rush of pent up energy flowing through his body, and it feels like he can breathe for the first time in days. He exhales shakily, and the ground... the ground shakes with him. And this... this is...

Unexpected. Amazing. _Exhilarating_.

The Audience seems to share his thoughts, and after a moment of silence, the cheers resume. He tunes them out easily, though, his whole body positively vibrating with the power flowing through it. He takes another deep breath, and the world seems to come into focus around him, sharper and brighter than before. He can feel it as much as he can see and hear it, the vibrations under his feet and in the air, the pressure waves running along his arms and setting his hair on end, and the answering waves threatening to burst out from his fingertips. His powers, absent for so long, and now threatening to overflow.

And he has all of three seconds to learn how to use them.

Does he have a chance now? To make it out of the arena with his life? He does not have the time to dwell on it as Gaveedra charges at him once again, eyes narrowed and visibly more focused than before. Ryk lifts an arm instinctively, palm facing his opponent, fingers spread out. He tries to remember the feeling of releasing that energy through his hand, the vibrations resonating in the bones of his fingers...

… those fingers closing around nothing but air and bits of brain matter as the whitecoat's head explodes violently under his hand...

The intrusive thought is enough to make him hesitate. A burst of energy is released, but it's weak, and Gaveedra manages to dodge it, only his cape rustled by it. Only his reflexes save Ryk from having his head sliced clean off his shoulders. He jumps back far enough that the blade barely nicks his nose when it's swung his way but loses his balance in the process.

“ _La puta que te par_ _ió_ _...!_ ”

He stumbles, falling backwards and landing painfully on his backside. He rolls to the side just as a sword swings down, the tip burying itself in the ground where his head was moments earlier. He looks up at the redhead, and his expression is impassive before his blue eyes narrow at him.

“Get up,” he says, his fingers visibly tightening around the hilt of his sword. “I'd rather not end this with you on the ground.”

Ryk doesn't need to be told twice, and he's not counting on the other waiting for him if he takes too long. He scrambles to his feet and takes a few steps back as Gaveedra pulls his sword free. The taller man examines him for a moment, twirling his sword in his hand, before charging again. And when he does, Ryk is ready.

He plants his feet firmly on the ground, not about to back down or stumble again. If he only has this once chance to make it out alive, he is going to make the most of it. He glares at the other as he gets closer and waits until the very last moment, his hand outstretched in front of him. The redhead swings one of his swords back in preparation, leaving himself completely open, and Ryk takes his shot. Gaveedra is too close to dodge the attack, and at this distance his surprise is clearly visible on his face as the pulse hits him right in the middle of his chest. He is thrown back farther than Ryk expected, his body arcing almost gracefully through the air before landing on his back near the center of the arena. He's still holding one of his swords by the end of it, but the other – the double-bladed one – falls with a clatter halfway between them.

The Audience roars loudly, whether in protest or approval he cannot tell and doesn't care. He has more important things to worry about right now, and he knows better than to think that he'll get a greater chance at gaining the upper hand than this one. He breaks into a sprint as he sees Gaveedra rising to his feet. The other man is faster, but he has a head start. They both run towards the fallen weapon, and Ryk beats him to it, if just barely. He sees Gaveedra swing his sword at him once again, so he dodges and uses his staff instead to get to the double-bladed sword. He hooks the end of it in the sword's knuckle-bow and swings his staff back as hard as he can in an arc, smiling triumphantly when he hears the clank of metal hitting the wall behind him.

His success is short-lived when Gaveedra once more takes an offensive stance, but he stands his ground. Gaveedra is faster than Protan Nine, and thus what Ryk is used to, but also smaller. And one sword is, in Ryk's view of the world, slightly easier to deal with than four arms. He might actually have a chance.

He jumps backwards as the sword swings at his face once again, and this time he's ready with a counteroffensive. He swings one end of the staff at the redhead's feet, and when he jumps to avoid the blow Ryk is ready for it. He attempts to butt the opposite end of the staff right under the redhead's ribs, but he doesn't foresee the other twisting in mid air and slicing at the staff cleanly in two with his sword.

“Shit!” he exclaims, falling back as the other lands gracefully on his feet. He looks down at what remains of his weapon, barely three feet long and one end now sharpened to a point. Virtually useless. He holds on to it nonetheless, fingers tightening around it before looking back at his opponent, who is walking a slow circle around him. Like a predator circling its prey, he realizes. And Ryk has the sudden, chilling realization that the other is just playing with him.

“We are even now,” Gaveedra says calmly, dragging the tip of his sword along the ground.

“Even, my ass,” Ryk scoffs and ignores the way an elegant eyebrow is lifted questioningly at him. “In what universe is this fucking stick equivalent to _that_?!” he says, pointing at his sword.

Gaveedra ignores him and continues circling him, and Ryk turns with him.

“I'm done playing,” Gaveedra states, finally coming to a stop. “If you have been holding back, I suggest you stop doing it now.”

“ _Playing_ ?! I'll show you playing, _pinche pendejo_...”

He feels the energy crawling on his skin, building up and looking for a way out. He ignores it, lets it grow, feeling the answering pulse from the ground beneath his feet. It calls to him like a magnet, and in that instant it makes perfect sense what he does next. He lets it build up for just another moment before letting it go, releasing it down and letting the ground absorb and dissipate it. The result is almost explosive. The ground shakes violently, the walls tremble, and the Audience screams. Even Gaveedra's eyes widen in surprise as he struggles to stay on his feet.

It would have been very satisfying if something did not feel as wrong about it as it does. He tries to control the quake, to focus it, direct it under his opponent's feet. But the ground resists him. And when he tries to pull back, it tries to pull him in.

“Qué mierda...?” he says, pulling back harder and physically stumbling back as the connection finally snaps. It feels like slipping free from a cold, slippery grip on his wrist. He stares wide-eyed, fearfully, at the ground beneath his feet, which is still rumbling gravely and all of a sudden feels entirely too alive for his liking. A shiver runs down his spine.

Gaveedra, on the other hand, seems oblivious to his plight.

“Now that is more like it,” he says excitedly, a gleam in his eyes that had been absent from their fight until now. He's still on his feet, confidently riding out the last waves as they slowly dissipate. He gives Ryk all of two seconds to compose himself before running at him.

And Ryk... he does his best to keep the distance between them. His powers give him an advantage as far as reach is concerned, but Gaveedra is stupidly quick and agile, and is able to predict his attacks with an accuracy that is uncanny. Ryk is only able to hit him when he manages to get too close for comfort, and even when he does, it does not have the effect he wishes for. Even when he knocks Gaveedra back with a blast, the other just gets up and shakes it off like it's no big deal. Oh, it hurts him, of that Ryk is sure. It rattles his bones, but it's nowhere near the destructive energy he remembers from... the incident. He recognizes, logically, that he is holding back. But it's hard not to when he wishes he could just knock Gaveedra out, instead of causing him any permanent damage. Or worse.

But he is getting tired of running and dodging and overusing his powers, and Gaveedra is giving no signs of slowing down.

“Please stop,” he begs, rolling away from another attack. He is breathing heavily, and his legs are so tired they feel like lead. His back is against the wall, and he cannot run anymore. “Why can't you just stay down?”

Sweat gets in his eyes and makes his vision blurry. It stings, but worst of all it makes him incapable of reading the other's expression.

“You would ask something so cowardly of me?” Gaveedra asks, his tone devoid of emotion. He steps closer to Ryk, but stops at a safe distance. Just far enough that he'll have enough time to react and jump out of the way if he needs to.

“I don't want to hurt you...”

This makes Gaveedra pause as if in thought.

“Then you will die,” he says eventually, simply but not cruelly. Like he's just stating a fact. “The time for games is over. The Audience is waiting for the end of this fight.”

As if on cue, the Audience roars its approval, eager to see blood being spilled. Ryk looks up for the first time since the fight started, trying to discern their faces. But they are still too far away, and the spotlights above are blinding. It doesn't matter, though. It does not make a single difference. They want him dead, and if he does nothing, they will get what they want.

He will _not_ give them what they want. A strangled sob escapes his throat as he realizes he has no choice. Not if he wants to make it out of here. And he does... or maybe he just doesn't want to die.

Rage boils inside him at the unfairness of it all. Some of it at the man in front of him, but mostly at the people above them. He hopes they all burn in hell, every single one of them.

He sees Gaveedra move and raises his hand towards him for the last time, fully prepared to let go. No more holding back. But then Gaveedra stops, and Ryk... Ryk hesitates.

That is all the opening Gaveedra needs. He moves quickly, and suddenly Ryk's hand is jerked backwards, hitting the wall right by his head.

It takes him a moment to process what just happened. Gaveedra is still there, several feet ahead of him. One hand extended towards him, but both of them free of any weapons. The pain doesn't register until he turns his head and sees his hand impaled by the redhead's sword, pinned to the wall.

He bites back a scream, but is only half-successful. A strangled noise escapes his throat instead, or he thinks it does. It's impossible to tell under the clamor of the Audience.

And then Gaveedra is there, mere inches from him, looking at him with something that, on anyone else's face, might resemble regret.

“You gave a good fight,” he says, as if that is in any way reassuring.

“Please...”

“Do not besmirch yourself,” is all the answer he gets, low enough that it won't be picked up by the microphones. His voice is cold. It contrasts with his eyes. “It will be quick,” he says, fingers wrapping themselves firmly around Ryk's throat. Holding him in place but not squeezing. “That much I can do for you, at least.”

“Don't,” he pleads, looking into his eyes. They are strangely comforting, now that the fight is almost over. Not comforting enough to make him forget what is about to happen. His heartbeat is loud enough he can hear it inside his own head. Gaveedra must surely be able to feel it under his fingers.

“I said not to do that,” he says, tearing his eyes away and grabbing the handle of his sword with his free hand. Ryk's free hand clenches in response, awaiting the inevitable.

It clenches around what remains of his staff, all but forgotten by both of them until this very moment.

“I'm sorry,” Ryk whispers and closes his eyes as Gaveedra's turn back to him questioningly, hand frozen on the handle of his sword before he can pull it out. It's a small mercy that Ryk cannot see the look in his eyes as he plunges the sharp end of the staff into Gaveedra's gut. His hand tingles with pent up energy moments before he releases it, and the staff all but explodes in his hand, spraying splinters everywhere.

The fingers around his throat are suddenly gone, and the Audience is silent. When he finally gathers the courage to open his eyes, he sees Gaveedra stumble back, his eyes wide in surprise. Blood pours slowly from his mouth, the same bright red that is slowly seeping into his clothes around his stomach as Ryk watches in abject horror.

And then Gaveedra falls to his knees.

Ryk remains frozen for a minute before the chants of the Audience snap him out of it. He grabs the hilt of the sword and pulls hard, screaming as it slips free from the wall. His hand is bleeding freely, and he holds it close to his chest. The fight is not over yet.

He turns back to the redhead, sword gripped firmly in his left hand, and the look in his eyes shakes him to his very core. Nothing but calm resignation stares back at him, and Ryk wants to yell at him for it, wants to tell him to get back to his feet and keep fighting. But the damage is done. Even he can tell the wound is most likely fatal.

“I'm sorry,” he says instead, once more. He should make this quick. Grant him the same mercy the other promised him. But when he swings the sword back to deliver the final blow, he stops... and listens. For the first time tonight, he can make out what the Audience is saying as they chant in unison.

“Cancel! Cancel!”

And Ryk's blood boils, reminded of what this whole circus is all about. So quick they are to turn against their glorious champion, all just to see someone's blood being spilled. Selfish, ruthless, _pathetic_. All of this just for their entertainment.

Ryk lowers the sword slowly and looks up at them. They should all burn in hell. It's nothing less than what they deserve. And if he cannot give that to them, he'll have to settle for _burying_ them.

It takes him seconds to call forth the energy he needs, fueled by the continuing chanting. If it's canceling what they want then he'll give it to them. To every last one of them. He feels the ground under his feet calling at him hungrily, ready to take all he has to give. And so he does.

It starts with a low rumble, matching the rapid beating of his heart, but it escalates quickly. The ground shakes beneath his feet, yet he stands firmly as he glares up at them. The walls tremble, and the Audience screams as it realizes what is happening. And when the ground tries to greedily pull the energy from his body, he gives it away freely.

 _Serves them well_ , he thinks as the walls start to crumble. But he doesn't have the time to enjoy it. The collar around his neck buzzes, unexpectedly, and pain shoots up his spine.

And then there is nothing but darkness.


End file.
